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SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 



BY THE SAME AUTHOR 

THE VOICES OF THE DUNES 
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ETCHING 
A PRACTICAL TREATISE 

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THE DUNE COUNTRY 
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Sketches in 

DUNELAND 

by 

EARL H. REED 



Author of 

"The Voices of the Dunes" 

'Etching: A Practical Treatise' 

"The Dune Country" 



Illustrated by the Author 



NEW YORK; JOHN LANE COMPANY 

LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD 

MCMXVIII 



F6~3Z 



COPYRIGHT, I9I8 
BY JOHN LANE COMPANY 



THE-PLIMPTON-PRESS 
NORWOOD-MASS-U-S-A 



OCT 23 1318 



( Q CI. A 5 06 3 22 



To 

THE MEMORY OF 

C. C. R. 



INTRODUCTION 

IN the dune region that extends along the 
wild coasts of Lake Michigan, and in the 
back country contiguous to it, is a land of 
allurement. 

The strange human characters, whose little 
drift-wood shanties are scattered along the shore, 
and among the sandhills, and whose isolated 
retreats are further inland, are difficult to be- 
come acquainted with, except in a most casual 
way. They look upon the chance wayfarer with 
suspicion and disfavor. 

Readers of "The Dune Country" will remem- 
ber "Old Sipes," "Happy Cal," and "Catfish 
John," the old derelicts living along the beach, 
further accounts of whose "doin's" are in the 
following pages. As portraits of these worthies 
have already appeared, they are omitted in this 
volume. New characters are introduced, who, 
it is hoped, will be as cordially welcomed. 

The region is of important historical interest. 
Narratives of early exploration, and primitive 

[7] 



INTRODUCTION 

Indian lore associated with it, have filled many 
pages of American history. The Pottowatto- 
mies have gone, but the romance of the vanished 
race still lingers among the silent hills. While 
many poetic legends, of unknown antiquity, have 
survived the red men, the Indian stories in these 
pages are entirely fanciful, except as to environ- 
ment. 

The nature loving public will be fortunate if 
the organized efforts succeed, which are being 
made to preserve the country of the dunes as a 
national park. In compliance with a resolution 
of the Senate, the Department of the Interior, 
through the able assistant to the Secretary, Mr. 
Stephen T. Mather, has recently made an ex- 
haustive report on the subject, which is most 
favorable to the project. Momentous events 
have, for the time being, eclipsed minor con- 
siderations, and this, as well as many other 
measures for the public good, must wait until 
the shadow of the Hun has passed. 

It is only within the past few years that the 
picturesque quality of the region has become 
known to lovers of American landscape, who 
are now lured by its varied attractions. 

[8] 



INTRODUCTION 

The country is of immeasureable value to 
botanists, ornithologists, and investigators in other 
fields of natural science. 

The Audubon societies are taking a deep 
interest in its preservation. Those of us for 
whom it is not necessary to slaughter songsters 
for the decoration of our hats, and who believe 
that nature's beautiful feathered messengers 
should not be made to bleed and suffer for thought- 
less vanity, can sympathize with any move- 
ment that will contribute to their welfare. As 
a refuge for migratory birds, the proposed pre- 
serve would be invaluable. It is within the 
Mississippi valley flight zone, and during the 
periods of migration the bird life in the dune 
country is abundant, but unfortunately finds 
little protection among the wooded hills. 

The wild flowers also suffer from vandal hands. 
Many armfuls of them are ruthlessly picked 
and carried away, preventing further propaga- 
tion. A human being is only partially emanci- 
pated from barbarism, who cannot look upon a 
beautiful thing without wanting to pick it or 
kill it. Primitive savagery would not be at- 
tracted by beauty at all. Partial development 

[9] 



INTRODUCTION 

of the love of beauty suggests its selfish acquire- 
ment, while further enlightenment teaches us 
to cherish and preserve it. The destruction of 
the wild flowers, and the use of bird plumage for 
personal adornment, is modified barbarism. We 
cannot be fully civilized until we are able to love 
these beautiful things in their natural habitats, 
without temptation to injure them. 

To the botanist, the country is a treasure 
house. Almost, if not all, of the flora indigenous 
to the temperate zone, is found within its borders. 

The flowers have a kingdom in the dunes. 
From the secluded nooks and fertile crevices, 
from among the shadows of the trees, and along 
the margins of the marshes and little pools, 
their silent songs of color go out over the land- 
scapes. In no form is beauty so completely 
expressed, and in no form is it so accessible to us. 

The sketches in this volume are culled from 
the experiences and reflections of many happy 
days that were spent in this mystic land. In 
such a retreat we may find refuge from the town, 
from the nerve-racking noise and stifling smoke, 
and from the artificialities and the social illu- 
sions that becloud our daily lives. E. H. R. 

[10] 



CONTENTS 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I. The Dream Jewel 17 

II. A Romance of Mt. Tom 25 

III. The Heron's Pool 41 

IV. The Story of the Stream 51 

V. The Moon in the Marsh 67 

VI. Holy Zeke 75 

VII. The Love Affair of Happy Cal and 

Elvirey Smetters 107 

VIII. The Resurrection of Bill Saunders . 135 

IX. The Winding River's Treasure ... 165 

X. The Plutocrats 223 



En] 



ILLUSTRATIONS 

The "Ancient" Frontispiece S 

Mt. Tom Facing page 24 / 

The Heron's Pool 4° ^ 

"Omemee" 5° f 

The Moon in the Marsh 66 K 

"HolyZeke" 74 ' 

Mrs. Elvirey Smetters IQ 6 ^ 

Bill Saunders J 34 ^ 

The "Bogie House" I5° ,/ ' 

"Na'cissus Jackson" 164^ 

The Requiem of the Leaves 204 ^ 

The Game Warden and his Deputy 222 - 

On the White Hills 2 3^ ^ 

The Troopers of the Sky 270 



[13] 



I 

THE DREAM JEWEL 



I 

THE DREAM JEWEL 

THE tribe of the sturgeon was speeding 
southward over the rock-strewn floors 
of the inland sea. In the van of the 
swimming host its leader bore a wondrous stone. 
From it multicolored beams flashed out through 
the dim waters and into unsounded depths. 
Shapes, still and ghostly, with waving fins and 
solemn orbs, stared at the passing glow and van- 
ished. Phantom-like forms faded quickly into 
dark recesses, and frightened schools of small fish 
fled away over pale sandy expanses. Clouds of 
fluttering gulls and terns followed the strange 
light that gleamed below the waves. Migrating 
birds, high in the night skies, wheeled with plain- 
tive calls, for this new radiance was not of the 
world of wings and fins. 

The wonder stone was being carried out of the 
Northland. For ages untold it had reposed in 
the heart of a stupendous glacier, that crept over 
the region of the great lakes from the roof of the 

[17] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

world — from that vast frozen sea of desolation 
that is ghastly white and endless — under the 
corona of the Northern Lights. 

From a cavern deep in ice, its prismatic rays 
had illumined the crystal labyrinths during the 
slow progress of the monster of the north, grinding 
and scarring the earth in its path of devastation. 

The radiance from the stone was ineffable. 
Such color may have swept into the heavens on 
the world's first morning, when the Spirit moved 
over the face of the waters, or have trembled 
in the halo at the Creation, when cosmos was 
evolved out of elemental fires. 

It glowed in the awful stillness of its prison, 
untouched by the primeval storms that raged 
before the mammoths trod the earth, and before 
men of the stone age had learned the use of fire. 

Many centuries after the greater part of the 
gigantic ice sheet had yielded to balmy airs, its 
frowning ramparts lingered along the wild shores 
of the north. The white silence was broken by 
reverberations from crumbling masses that crashed 
down the steeps into the billows that broke against 
the barrier. In one of the pieces the stone was 
borne away. The luminous lump drifted with the 

[18] 



THE DREAM JEWEL 

winds. It was nuzzled by curious rovers of the 
blue waters that rubbed gently along its sides and 
basked in the refulgence. With the final dissolu- 
tion of the fragment, the stone was released. 

In quest of new feeding grounds, the sturgeon 
had explored these frigid depths, and, after priva- 
tion and fruitless wanderings, had gathered for 
the long retreat to a warmer clime. Their leader 
beheld the blazing gem falling, like a meteor, be- 
fore him. With fateful instincT: he seized it and 
moved grimly on. The gray horde saw the light 
from afar and streamed after it, as warriors might 
have followed the banner of a hero. 

Through many miles of dark solitudes the bearer 
of the stone led his adventurous array. Swiftly 
moving fins took the sturgeon to waters where 
nature had been more merciful. 

The roaring surf lines of the southern shore 
washed vast flat stretches of sand that were bleak 
and sterile, for no living green relieved the monot- 
onous wilds. 

A few Indians had been driven by warfare into 
this dreary land. Their wigwams were scattered 
along the coast, where they eked out a precarious 
existence from the spoil of the waters. 

[19] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

When the sturgeon came their lives were quick- 
ened with new energy. With their bark canoes 
and stone spears they found many victims among 
the tired fish. A wrinkled prophet, who had com- 
muned with the gods of his people, in a dream, 
had foretold the sending of a luminous stone, by 
a sturgeon, that would mark the beginning of an 
era of prosperity and happiness for his tribe. 
There was rejoicing when the lustre was seen 
among the waves. In the belief that the promised 
gift of the manitous had come, and the prophecy 
was fulfilled, the big fish was pursued with eager- 
ness and finally captured. The long-awaited prize 
was carried in triumph to the lodge of the chief. 
The red men gathered in solemn council, and 
honors were heaped upon the aged seer whose vis- 
ion had become true. After long deliberation, 
Flying Fawn, the loveliest maiden of the tribe, was 
appointed keeper of the stone. The lithe and 
beautiful barbarian child of nature clasped it to 
her budding breast, and departed into the wastes. 
With an invocation to her gods for its protection, 
she hid their precious gift far beyond the reach 
of prying eyes. 

The winds carried myriads of flying grains to 

[20] 



THE DREAM JEWEL 

the chosen spot. They came in thin veils and 
little spirals over the barrens, and gathered, with 
many sweeps and swirls, into the mound that rose 
over the resting place of the stone. The army of 
the silent sands had become its guardian, for 
nevermore was its hiding place known. 

The winds and the years sculptured the shifting 
masses into strange and bewildering forms. Trees, 
grasses, and flowers grew, and the hilltops were 
crowned with perennial garlands. The green sanc- 
tuaries were filled with melody. The forests 
teemed with game and the red men were in a land 
of plenty. 

The Country of the Dunes had come into being. 
Somewhere deep in its bosom shines the Dream 
Jewel. Like "The Great Carbuncle/' its fervid 
splendor beams from a fount unknown. Its iri- 
descence flashes from the distant dunes at sunset. 
It is in the twilight afterglows, on the sapphire 
waters of the lake on summer days, and in the 
fairylands that are pictured in the pools. It glori- 
fies dull winter landscapes with skies of infinite 
hues, and glances from twisted trunks of ancient 
pines on hills that defy the storms. It pulsates 
in star reflections that haunt the margins of wet 

[21] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

sands, and where crescent moons touch the waves 
that toss on night horizons. Its tinge is in the 
tender leaves and petals of the springtime, and in 
the flush of autumn's robes. We see its elusive 
tints through vistas in the dusk, and in the purple 
mystery that fills the shadowy places, for the 
Dream Jewel is Beauty, and they who know not 
its holy light must walk in darkness. 



[22] 



II 

A ROMANCE OF MT. TOM 




*tet, 



■ 



MT. TOM" 



(Fromthe Author s Etching) 



II 

A ROMANCE OF MT. TOM 

BEFORE strangers came into the land, 
bringing with them a prosiac nomencla- 
ture, there was no Mt. Tom. When the 
early white explorers crossed the southern end of 
Lake Michigan in their frail canoes, they saw, 
from far out on the water, dim irregular filaments 
of yellow that stretched along the horizon. There 
was a bold accent in the far-flung line of distant 
coast, an ancient landmark of a primitive race. 
The noble promontory that lifted its royal brow 
from among the contours of the sand hills — the 
monarch of the range — was called Wud-ju-na- 
gow, or Sand Mountain, by the red men. 

Its top was the highest point along the great 
sweep of shore that bordered the country of the 
dunes. In past centuries its sand had been slowly 
piled by the shifting winds. Eventually the sand 
grasses rooted themselves, and, in succeeding 
years, the trees grew. Wud-ju-na-gow became a 
"fixed dune," no longer subjecT: to the caprices of 
the winds. 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

The slopes were robed with vegetation. Stately 
pines, spruces, and cedars flourished among the 
dense forest growth that reached almost to the 
summit. Here the trees were smaller, and bare 
patches of yellow were visible against the sky- 
line, from which wispy wreaths of sand would 
spiral up in the air currents on windy days. 

In the autumn the groups of green conifers 
made dark accents in the expanse of red and gold 
that draped Wud-ju-na-gow's massive form. 
Flowers grew lavishly along the steep slopes. 
The wild life sought refuge in the impassable 
thickets and tall timber. Hawks and eagles 
soared above the woods with watchful eyes and 
dropped down into them for furtive prey. Hordes 
of noisy crows circled over the tree-tops and 
around the wind-swept summit. Wolves and 
other marauders crept stealthily through the 
undergrowth at night. Startled deer leaped from 
quiet hiding places and fled from suspicious 
sounds and odors. Partridges thrived in the 
patches of brush and tangled grape-vines, in spite 
of many enemies. Beady eyes peered out from 
under fallen trunks. The hunters and the hunted 
followed their destinies among the shadows. 

[26] 



A ROMANCE OF MT. TOM 

A Pottawattomie village had flourished for 
many years on a low ridge back of the hills, near 
Wud-ju-na-gow. Just below the village a small 
creek, fed by springs, wound through the open 
woods and reached the lake through a deep ravine. 
The high hills protected the lodges from the north 
winds and violent storms from the lake. About 
sixty bark wigwams were strung along the ridge. 

The young men hunted through the hills and 
usually had no difficulty in keeping the village 
supplied with meat. They carried their birch- 
bark canoes through the ravine to the lake and 
varied the food supplies with sturgeon and other 
fish. In times of plenty the game and fish not 
needed for immediate use were smoked and stored 
for winter consumption. Small patches of corn 
were scattered through the fertile open spaces 
away from the creek. The women gossiped over 
their domestic concerns, the men loitered along 
the hillside, and the little community lived in 
peace, with no troubles but those that nature has 
laid upon all her children. In their uncivilized 
state they were spared the miseries of tempera- 
ment, and the refined tortures, as well as the joys, 
of more highly developed mentality. Their primi- 

[27] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

tive needs were provided for. Food was abundant 
and the red men were contented — if there be 
real contentment in the world. 

After a long period of prosperity there came a 
summer of drought. Pitiless heat and breathless 
skies shrivelled the leaves, dried up the streams 
and ponds, and brought suffering to the live 
things. In the autumn the parched land had 
yielded up its vibrant life. Instead of the mellow 
golds and crimsons, there were grays and neutral 
browns. The voices of the forest were hushed. 
The fall flowers did not come. The willows and 
tall grasses drooped in sorrow, for a blight had 
come upon the land. Day after day the blood- 
red sun went below the sharp rim of the horizon 
without promise to the faded hills. 

Smoke appeared far in the southwest and a 
black pall crept into the sky overhead. Before 
many hours there was a vague unrest in the 
woods. There were strange noises among the 
withered trees and dried marshes. The wild life 
was fleeing eastward. At night a baleful glare 
tinged the crests of the dunes and reflected from 
swiftly moving wings above them. 

With the coming of the wind stifling smoke 

[28] 



A ROMANCE OF MT. TOM 

crept through the woods. Soon the crackling lines 
of flame came, writhing and roaring through the 
dry timber. There were muffled cries from tiny 
furred fugitives in the matted grasses in the low 
places. Noble landscapes were being scourged by 
demons. Nature's cool cloisters and her dream 
cathedrals were on fire. 

There is a heart-felt grief that comes with the 
burning of the trees. The sacrilege of their de- 
struction touches us more deeply if we have lived 
among them, and learned that with them have 
been builded the real kingdoms of the earth. In 
them we may find reflection of all human emotion, 
and for the subtly attuned soul, they have emo- 
tion of their own. 

The terrified dwellers along the creek fled to 
the beach, and, with awe-stricken faces watched 
the march of the flames through the country. 
They saw the flashes from the cedars, pines, and 
spruces shoot high into clouds of smoke and fly- 
ing sparks, and heard the crackling of countless 
trunks and branches that quivered in torment on 
the blazing hills. 

By some fortuitous chance — perhaps a tem- 
porary veering of the air currents — the ravine, 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

through which the little creek found its way, was 
spared. A portion of the timber on the slopes of 
Wud-ju-na-gow was also untouched, but every- 
where else was desolation. The blackened and 
smouldering expanse carried dismay into the 
hearts of the horror-stricken groups huddled near 
the mouth of the stream. Most of their primitive 
belongings had been rescued, but their future looked 
as dark as the grim landscapes around them. 

It was late in the season. The fishing in the 
lake had been unusually poor, and there was no 
living thing among the forest ruins that could 
be used for food. The stores that had been saved 
would last but a short time and there was an 
appalling fear of famine. 

Many anxious hours were spent in deliberation. 
Believing that Omnipotent wrath had destroyed 
everything except the sands and the waters of the 
lake, the bewildered Indians saw no ray of hope. 
The calamity had fallen with crushing force. The 
vengeance of evil gods was upon them. Their few 
frail canoes could not carry all of them on the 
lake. The range of smoking hills that swept 
away along the curving beach-lines seemed to offer 
no path of refuge. 

[30] 



A ROMANCE OF MT. TOM 

Young Wa-be-no-je had listened intently to all 
of the discussions, and had pondered deeply over 
the desperate straits of his people. He bore the 
Indian name of the white marsh hawk. He was 
nearly nineteen. His proud father, a shrewd old 
hunter and trapper, had taught him the craft and 
lore of the woods. He sat near little Taheta, the 
playmate of his childhood. With ripening years 
love had come into their lives. Before the great 
fire they had begun to talk of a wigwam of their 
own, but now that dark hours had come they knew 
that they would have to wait. 

Wa-be-no-je rose from a log on which they 
had been sitting, near a group of the older men, 
stepped forward and volunteered to follow the 
fire and find the game. With care the scant 
supply of food would be sufficient to support his 
companions for two moons. If he did not return 
by the end of that time they would understand 
that his quest had failed. 

A few simple preparations were made for his 
journey. With forebodings in her heart, with love 
light shining through her tears, little Taheta saw 
him depart into the charred wastes on his errand 
of salvation. No mailed knight ever rode out 

[3i] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

upon the path to glory with brighter eyes upon 
him than those that glowed under the long lashes 
of the Pottawattomie maiden, as she gazed long- 
ingly after him from the edge of the ravine. She 
watched his lithe, sinewy figure as he bravely 
strode away and faded into the distance. She 
went back in sorrow and began with the others 
to endure patiently the long wait and suspense 
which they knew was inevitable before the hunt- 
er's return. 

It was agreed that every night at sundown a 
fire should be built on the lofty top of Wud-ju-na- 
gow, and kept burning until dawn, during Wa-be- 
no-je's absence. If he was where he could see 
this light, he would know that his people were 
still in the ravine, and in the darkness it would 
take the place of burned landmarks to guide him 
on his return journey. Ten members of the little 
band, including Taheta, were to perform this duty, 
and each night one of them climbed the zigzag 
trail to the sandy top, kindled the beacon fire, 
watched and replenished it until sunrise, and 
returned. 

From miles away the young hunter could see 
the tiny light against the sky. When its glow 

[32] 



A ROMANCE OF MT. TOM 

was very bright he knew that one he loved was 
near it. He tramped on through the ashes and 
debris for many days. At night he climbed to 
some high spot and slept. One afternoon he 
reached a sandy stretch where the trees were 
scattered and there were few grasses. The wind 
had evidently lulled when the fire reached this 
area for the burnt places ended. He began to find 
the game trails leading from them, which he fol- 
lowed for several days. The signs became fresher, 
and one morning his eyes were gladdened by the 
sight of deer and buffalo peacefully grazing be- 
yond a small river that he had never seen before. 

Fearing that the animals might move on and 
be beyond reach before he could return and obtain 
help, he decided to kill as many as possible and 
preserve and hide the meat. Its transportation 
would then be a comparatively simple matter, 
and he was sure that he could secure enough for 
the winter's supply. 

He set cautiously to work. The noiseless arrows 
brought down one of the buffalo and a deer the 
first day. He killed no more until this meat was 
cut into little strips, strung on many switches, 
smoked over fires of dried leaves and dead wood, 

[33] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

and thoroughly dried in the sun. He enlarged a 
small cave under some rocks by digging away the 
sand. He made a floor of dead leaves inside on 
which to pile his stores, and carefully walled up 
the opening with stones to protect the precious 
contents from the wolves and other prowlers. 
The game was gradually moving away, but before 
it disappeared the cave was well filled and there 
was more than enough to last his people for a year. 

The long dry period was now broken by a 
heavy rain storm which lasted for several days. 
The arid earth drank of the falling waters; the 
blackness and ruin upon the land were washed as 
with tears of atonement. The streams again 
flowed and the pools and marshes that give life 
and joy to the wild things were filled. 

When the skies cleared Wa-be-no-je piled more 
rocks over the entrance to the cave and started 
homeward with a light heart. Weary miles were 
traversed before he could see the faint light on 
the horizon against the sky at night. During two 
nights he heard wolves howling in the distance, 
and the next night they were much closer. They 
gradually closed in toward him and he knew that 
danger had come. He had but two good arrows. 

[34] 



A ROMANCE OF MT. TOM 

The others were lost or broken. He came to a 
small stream and waded it for a mile or so to 
throw his hungry followers off his trail, but they 
soon found it again. Yellow eyeballs reflected his 
firelight while he slept. Once he loosed one of 
the precious arrows to save his life. The pack 
immediately fell upon their wounded comrade 
and devoured him. Their hunger was only par- 
tially appeased and they kept close to Wa-be-no-je 
until the following evening. He knew that unless 
he could find some means of shaking them off he 
would never see Taheta or his people again. He 
decided to attempt to pick his way through the 
end of a wide marsh, believing that his pursuers 
would not follow him into the water. If he could 
get safely across, he would be able to elude them. 
The swamp was full of quaking bogs, and near 
the middle the water was quite deep. His prog- 
ress was impeded by the soft mud and decayed 
vegetation on the bottom, and the further he went 
the chances became more desperate. One foot 
sank suddenly in the soft ooze and then the other. 
He could neither retreat nor go ahead. He had 
reached a mass of quicksand, and with every at- 
tempt to extricate himself he sank a little lower. 

[35] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

He clutched the ends of a few sodden grasses and 
held them for some time, but the stagnant murky 
waters slowly closed over him and he was gone. 

The baffled wolves howled along the margins of 
the marsh for a while but soon disappeared, like 
all enemies whose quarry has met finality. The 
little fire on the horizon flared up brightly, as 
though fresh sticks had been piled upon it, and 
gleamed through the darkness brighter than ever 
before. It faded away in the gray of the morning 
and its watcher followed the steep trail down the 
side of Wud-ju-na-gow to rest. 

Wa-be-no-je's silent departure from the world 
left hardly a ripple in the marsh. It is human to 
cherish the hope, or fondly believe, that some store 
of gold, or grandeur of achievement — some sculp- 
tured monument, or service to mankind — will 
stand at our place of exit and be eloquent while 
the ages last, but the Waters of Oblivion hide well 
their secrets. Beneath them are neither pride nor 
vanity. The primordial slime from which we came 
reclaims without pomp or jewelled vesture, and 
if there be a Great Beyond, poor Wa-be-no-je 
may reach it from the quicksand as safely as he 
who becomes dust within marble walls. 

[36] 



A ROMANCE OF MT. TOM 

The early snows came and the nightly fires on 
Wud-ju-na-gow still glowed. Only one guardian 
sat beside them, for Wa-be-no-je's people now be- 
lieved that he would never return. Hope still 
abided in Taheta's loyal heart, and night after 
night she climbed the shelving steeps and built 
her fire. One cold, stormy night she sat huddled 
in her blanket and listened to the north wind. 
The snow swirled around her and toward morn- 
ing the light was gone. The next day they found 
the rigid little form in the blanket and buried it 
below the ashes of her fire. 

Today the Fireweed, that ever haunts the burnt 
places, lifts its slender stalk above the spot, and 
it may be that the soul of faithful Taheta lurks 
among the tender pink blossoms — a halo that 
may be seen from the dark waters of the distant 
marsh. 



[37] 



Ill 

THE HERON'S POOL 




THE HEROX'S POOL 



{From the Author's Etching) 



Ill 

THE HERON'S POOL 

THE pool was far back from the big 
marshes through which the lazy current 
of the river wound. It was in one of 
those secluded nooks that the seeping water finds 
for itself when it would hide in secret retreats and 
form a little world of its own. It was bordered 
by slushy grasses and small willows; its waters 
spread silently among the bulrushes, lily pads 
and thick brush tangles. A few ghostly syca- 
mores and poplars protruded above the under- 
growth, and the intricate network of wild grape- 
vines concealed broken stumps that were mantled 
with moss. The placid pool was seldom ruffled, 
for the dense vegetation protected it from the 
winds. Wandering clouds were mirrored in its 
limpid depths. Water-snakes made silvery trails 
across it. Sinister shadows of hawks' wings some- 
times swept by, and often the splash of a frog sent 
little rings out over the surface. Opalescent 
dragon-flies hovered among the weeds and small 
turtles basked in the sun-light along the margins. 

C41 ] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

The Voices of the Little Things were in this 
abode of tranquillity — the gentle sounds that fill 
nature's sanctuaries with soft music. There were 
contented songs of feathered visitors, distant cries 
of crows beyond the tree-tops, faint echoes of a 
cardinal, rejoicing in the deep woods, and the 
drowsy hum of insecls — the myriad little tribes 
that sing in the unseen aisles of the grasses. 

One spring a gray old heron winged his way 
slowly over the pool, and, after a few uncertain 
turns over the trees, wearily settled among the 
rushes. After stalking about in the labyrinth of 
weeds along the shallow edges for some time, 
he took his station on a dead branch that pro- 
truded from the water near the shore, and 
solemnly contemplated his surroundings. 

His plumage was tattered, and he bore the rec- 
ord of the years he had spent on the marshy 
wastes along the river. His eye had lost its lustre, 
and the delicate blue that had adorned the wings 
of his youth had faded to a pale ashen gray. The 
tired pinions were slightly frayed — the wings 
hung rather loosely in repose, and the lanky legs 
carried scars and crusty gray scales that told of 
vicissitudes in the battle for existence. He looked 

[42] 



THE HERON'S POOL 

long and curiously at a round white objecl: on the 
bottom near his low perch. The round objedl had 
a history, but its story did not come within the 
sphere of the heron's interests, and he returned 
to his meditations on the gnarled limb. He may 
have dreamed of far-off shores and happy homes 
in distant tree-tops. A memory of a mate that 
flew devotedly by his side, but could not go all 
the way, may have abided with him. The peace 
of windless waters brooded in this quiet haven. 
It was a refuge from the storms and antagonisms 
of the outer world, its store of food was abundant, 
and in it he was content to pass his remaining 
days. 

When night came his still figure melted into 
the darkness. A fallen luna moth, whose wet 
wings might faintly reflect the" starlight, would 
sometimes tempt him, and he would listen lan- 
guidly to the lonely cries of an owl that lived in 
one of the sycamores. The periodic visits of 
coons and foxes, that prowled stealthily in the 
deep shadows, and craftily searched the wet 
grasses for small prey, did not disturb him. They 
well knew the power of the gray old warrior's 
cruel bill. All his dangerous enemies were far 

[43] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

away. The will-o'-the-wisps that spookily and 
fitfully hovered along the tops of the rushes, and 
the erratic flights of the fire-flies, did not mar his 
serenity. He was spending his old age in com- 
fort and repose. 

There is a certain air, or quality, about certain 
spots which is indefinable. An elusive and intan- 
gible impression, an idea, or a story, may become 
inseparably associated with a particular place. 
With a recurrence of the thought, or the memory 
of the story there always comes the involuntary 
mental picture of the physical environment with 
which it is interwoven. This association of 
thought and place is in most cases entirely indi- 
vidual, and is often a subtle sub-consciousness 
— more of a relationship of the soul, than the 
mind, to such an environment. Something in or 
near some particular spot that imparts a peculiar 
and distinctive character to it, or inspires some 
dominant thought or emotion, constitutes the 
"genius" of that place. The Genius of the Place 
may be a legend, an unwritten romance, a mem- 
ory of some event, an imaginary apparition, an 
unaccountable sound, the presence of certain 
flowers or odors, a deformed tree, a strange in- 

[44] 



THE HERON'S POOL 

habitant, or any thought or thing that would al- 
ways bring it to the mind. 

When the heron came to the pool the Genius 
of the Place was old Topago, a chief of the Potta- 
wattomies. A great many years ago he lived in 
a little hut, rudely built of logs and elm bark, on 
an open space a few hundred feet from the pool. 
The fortunes of his tribe had steadily declined, 
and their sun was setting. After the coming of 
the white man, war and sickness had decimated 
his people. The wild game began to disappear 
and hunger stalked among the little villages. The 
old chief brooded constantly over the sorrows of 
his race. As the years rolled on his melancholy 
deepened. He sought isolation in the deep woods 
and built his lonely dwelling near the pool to pass 
his last years in solitude. His was the anguish of 
heart that comes when hope has fled. Occasion- 
ally one of the few faithful followers who were 
left would come to the little cabin and leave sup- 
plies of corn and dried meat, but beyond this he 
had no visitors. His contacl: with his tribe had 
ceased. 

One stormy night, when the north wind howled 
around the frail abode, and the spirits of the cold 

[45 ] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

were sighing in the trunks of the big trees, the 
aged Indian sat over his small fire and held his 
medicine bag in his shrivelled hands. Its potent 
charm had carried him safely through many perils, 
and he now asked of it the redemption of his 
people. That night the wind ceased and he felt 
the presence of his good manitous in the darkness. 
They told him that the magic of his medicine was 
still strong. If he would watch the reflections in 
the pool, there would sometime appear among them 
the form of a crescent moon that would foretell 
a great change in the fortunes of his race, but he 
must see the reflection with his own eyes. 

In the spring, as soon as the ice had melted, he 
began his nightly vigils at the foot of an ancient 
pine that overhung the water. Through weary 
years he gazed with dimmed eyes upon the infi- 
nite and inscrutable lights that gleamed and trem- 
bled in the pool. Many times he saw the new 
moon shine in the twilights of the west, and saw 
the old crescent near the horizon before the dawn, 
but no crescent was ever reflected from the zenith 
into the still depths below. Only the larger moons 
rode into the night skies above him. His aching 
heart fought with despair and distrust of his 

[46] 



THE HERON'S POOL 

tribal gods. The wrinkles deepened on his wan 
face. The cold nights of spring and fall bent 
the decrepit figure and whitened the withered 
locks. Time dealt harshly with the faithful 
watcher, nobly guarding his sacred trust. 

One spring a few tattered shreds of a blanket 
clung to the rough roots. Heavy snow masses 
around the pine had slipped into the pool some- 
time during the winter, and carried with them a 
helpless burden. The melting ice had let it into 
the sombre depths below. The birds sang as 
before, the leaves came and went, and Mother 
Nature continued her eternal rhythm. 

During a March gale the ancient pine tottered 
and fell across the open water. In the grim pro- 
cession of the years it became sodden and gradu- 
ally settled into the oozy bottom. Only the 
gnarled and decayed branch — the perch of the 
old heron — remained above the surface. 

One night in early fall, when there was a tinge 
of frost in the air, and the messages of the dying 
year were fluttering down to the water from the 
overhanging trees, the full moon shone resplen- 
dent directly above the pool. The old heron 
turned his tapering head up toward it for a mo- 

[473 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

ment, plumed his straggling feathers for a while, 
nonchalantly gazed at the white skull that caught 
the moon's light below the water near his perch, 
and relapsed into immobility. A rim of darkness 
crept over the edge of the moon, and the earth's 
shadow began to steal slowly across the silver 
disk. The soft beams that glowed on the trees 
and grasses became dimmed and they retreated 
into the shadows. The darkened orb was almost 
eclipsed. Only a portion of it was left, but far 
down in the chill mystery of the depths of the 
pool, among countless stars, was reflected a cres- 
cent moon. 

The magic of Topago's medicine was still po- 
tent. The hour for the redemption of the red 
man had come, but he was no more. The mantle 
of the Genius of the Place had fallen upon the 
old heron. He was the keeper of the secret of 
his pool. 



C4«] 



IV 
THE STORY OF THE STREAM 




n 



nee 



IV 
THE STORY OF THE STREAM 

THE bistre-colored waters of French Creek 
seep sluggishly out of the ancient peat 
beds far away in the country back of 
the dunes. Countless tiny rivulets of transparent 
golden brown creep through the low land among 
the underbrush and mingle with the gentle cur- 
rent that whispers in the deep grasses, ripples 
against decayed branches and fallen trunks, hides 
under masses of gnarled roots and projecting 
banks, and enters the long sinuous ravine that 
winds through the woods and sand-hills. The 
ravine ends abruptly at the broad shore of the 
lake. The stream spreads out over the beach 
and tints the incoming surf with wondrous hues. 
In the daytime occasional gleams of light 
from the gliding water can be seen through the 
small openings in the labyrinths of undergrowth 
and between the tall tree trunks that crowd the 
shadowy defile. At night there are tremulous re- 
flections of the moon among the thick foliage. 

[51] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

Strange ghostly beams touch the boles of the 
solemn pines and sycamores and filter into the 
sombre recesses. 

The dramas of human life leave romance be- 
hind them. Its halo hovers over these darkened 
woods, for it was here that the beautiful Indian 
girl, Omemee, was brought by her dusky Potta- 
wattomie lover, in the moon of falling leaves, and 
it was here that the threads of their fate were 
woven nearly a hundred years ago. 

Red Owl first saw her among the wild black- 
berry bushes near the village of her people. She 
had responded to his entreaties with shy glances, 
and after many visits and much negotiation, her 
father, a wrinkled old chief, had consented 
to their union. Omemee's savage charms had 
brought many suitors to her father's wigwam. 
Her graceful willowy figure, long raven hair, 
musical voice, dark luminous eyes and gentle 
ways had made her a favorite of her village. She 
was called the dove in the language of her tribe. 
There was sorrow when she went away. 

Red Owl's prowess as a hunter, his skill in the 
rude athletic sports of the village, displayed on 
his frequent visits during the wooing, had won 

[52] 



THE STORY OF THE STREAM 

the admiration of the old warrior. Among the 
many bundles of valuable pelts that were borne 
along the Great Sauk Trail to the traders' posts, 
the largest were usually those of Red Owl. The 
fire-water of the white man did not lure him to 
disaster as it did many of his red brothers. He 
always transacted his business quickly and re- 
turned from the posts with the ammunition, traps 
and other supplies for which he had exchanged his 
furs. 

For a year he quietly accumulated a secret 
hoard of selected skins, which he laid before the 
door of the fond father as the marriage offering. 
The lovers disappeared on the trail that was to 
lead them to their home. For five days they 
travelled through the dunes and primeval forests. 
They came down the trail that crossed French 
Creek, climbed out of the ravine, and entered the 
village of Red Owl's people. The wigwams were 
scattered along the stretch of higher ground 
among the trees. Omemee was cordially wel- 
comed and soon grew accustomed to her new 
environment. 

For many years the young men of the tribe had 
trapped muskrats, beaver and mink along the 

[53] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

creek and in the swamps beyond its headwaters. 
Small furred animals were abundant for many 
miles around, and, during the fur season, the 
trappers were dispersed over a wide extent of 
territory. 

When "Peg Leg" Carr came into the dune 
country the only human trails he found were 
those of the red men. He came alone and built 
a cabin on the creek not far from the Indian vil- 
lage. Peg Leg may have still cherished a secret 
longing for human society which he was not will- 
ing to admit, even to himself. He had abandoned 
his last habitat for the ostensible reason that 
"thar was too many people 'round. " He came 
from about a hundred miles back on the Sauk 
Trail. After a family disagreement he had left 
his wife and two sons to their own devices in the 
wilderness, and was not heard of for nearly ten 
years. He suddenly appeared one morning, stump- 
ing along the trail, with his left knee fitted to the 
top of a hickory support. The lower part of the 
leg was gone, and he explained its absence by 
declaring that it had been "bit ofT." The time- 
worn pleasantry seemed to amuse him, and no 
amount of coaxing would elicit further details. 

[54] 



THE STORY OF THE STREAM 

There was a deep ugly scar in the left side of his 
neck. His vocal chords had been injured and he 
could talk only in hoarse whispers. He said that 
his throat had been "gouged out." Somebody or 
something had nearly wrecked Peg Leg physically, 
but the story, whatever it was, remained locked 
in his bosom. He admitted that he had "been 
to sea," but beyond that no facts were obtainable. 

After a brief sojourn at his old home he shoul- 
dered his pack and started west. When he arrived 
at French Creek he spent several days in looking 
the country over before deciding on the location 
of his cabin. He was a good-natured old fellow 
and the Indians did not particularly resent his 
intrusion, even when he began to set a line of 
traps along the creek. The small animals were 
so numerous that one trapper more or less made 
little difference, and he got on very well with his 
red neighbors. They rather pitied his infirmities 
and were disposed to make allowances. He was 
over seventy and apparently harmless. 

When the old man had accumulated a small 
stock of pelts it was his custom to carry them to 
a trading post located about forty miles back on 
the trail and exchange them for supplies for his 

[55] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

simple housekeeping and other necessities. These 
trips often consumed ten days, as his loads were 
heavy and he was compelled to travel slowly. 
On his return, when he came to the rude log 
bridge over which the trail crossed the creek in 
the ravine, he would sometimes wearily lay his 
pack down and pound on the timbers with his 
hickory stump as a signal to those above. He 
was unable to reach them with his impaired voice. 
Somebody in the wigwams usually heard him and 
came down to help the exhausted old trapper 
carry his burden up the steep incline. After rest- 
ing awhile he would trudge on to his cabin. 

A few years after the advent of Peg Leg a troop 
of soldiers arrived and built a fort. For strategic 
reasons the commander of the government post 
at Detroit decided to keep a small garrison at the 
end of the lake. A spot was cleared on the bluff 
and two small brass cannon were mounted in the 
block-house inside the log stockade. The tops 
of the surrounding trees were cut away so that 
the guns would command the trail from where it 
entered the north side of the ravine to the point 
at which it disappeared around a low hill south 
of the fort. 

[56] 



THE STORY OF THE STREAM 

The French Creek Trail was a branch of the 
Great Sauk Trail, which was the main thorough- 
fare from the Detroit post to the mouth of Chicago 
river. It was joined near the headwaters of 
the St. Joseph and Kankakee rivers, in what is 
now northeastern Indiana, by another trail that 
followed the north banks of the Kankakee from 
the Illinois country. The sinuous routes had been 
used from time immemorable. They were the es- 
tablished highways of the red men and the arteries 
of their simple commerce. Thousands of moc- 
casined feet traversed them on peaceful errands, and 
grim war parties sometimes moved swiftly along 
the numberless forest paths that connected with 
the main trails. There was a net-work of these 
all through the Indian country. Trees twisted 
and bent in a peculiar way, which we now often see 
in the woods, were landmarks left by the makers of 
various small trails that were travelled infrequently. 

Soon after the fort was built at French Creek, 
Pierre Chenault came and established a trading 
post near the village. He was followed by a num- 
ber of settlers who built log houses along the edge 
of the bluff. The red man's fatherland was in- 
vaded. The civilization of the white man — or 

[57] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

the lack of it — had come, with its attending evils 
of strong waters and organized rapacity. The 
waves of an alien race, with strange tongues and 
new weapons of steel, had broken over him. His 
means of subsistence dwindled. His heritage was 
passing to the sway of the despoiler. 

The Indians loitered around Pierre Chenault's 
trading post, bartered their few valuables for 
fire-water, and neglected the pursuits that had 
made them happy and prosperous. Chenault was 
a half-breed. His father belonged to that hardy 
race of French-Canadian voyageurs who had 
broken the paths of the wilderness in the north 
country, and penetrated the fastnesses of the terri- 
tory of the Great Lakes and the Mississippi. His 
mother was an Ojibwa on the south shore of 
Lake Superior. He was about forty, with a lean 
and hardened frame. His straight black hair was 
beginning to be streaked with gray, and fell to 
his shoulders. Piercing eyes looked out from 
under the heavy brows with an expression of low 
cunning, and his face carried the stamp of villainy. 
He was a mongrel, and in his case the mixture 
was a failure. He inherited the evil traits of both 
races and none of the virtues of either. 

[58] 



THE STORY OF THE STREAM 

The creek was now practically abandoned as a 
trapping ground by the Indians. With the excep- 
tion of Red Owl and Peg Leg, who divided the few 
miles of the stream, the trappers had sought other 
regions that were less disturbed. The dwellers in 
the wigwams contemplated a general removal to 
a more congenial habitat. Their neighbors were 
getting too numerous for comfort, and their ways 
of life were meeting with too much interference. 
They did not objecl: to Peg Leg, but he was all of 
their white brothers that they felt they needed. 

As the fur grew scarcer Red Owl rather resented 
the rivalry of the old man's interests, and occa- 
sionally appropriated an otter or mink, when he 
passed Peg Leg's traps, and had found nothing in 
his own. He probably lulled his conscience with 
the idea that the animals naturally belonged to 
the Indians, and that Peg Leg's privileges were 
a form of charity that need not be extended to the 
point of his own self-denial. 

Many times the half-breed had looked long- 
ingly on the quiet-eyed Omemee when she came 
to his post. He coveted Red Owl's savage jewel. 
Wickedness fermented in his depraved mind, but he 
was too wise to make advances. He knew of Red 

[S9] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

Owl's surreptitious visits to Peg Leg's traps and 
laid his plans with far-seeing craft. One still 
February morning he saw him go into the ravine 
and start up the creek on the ice. He seized his 
rifle and crept through the thick timber and 
undergrowth, away from the creek, paralleling the 
course taken by the unsuspecting Indian. After 
going a mile or so Red Owl stopped near the pro- 
jecting roots of a large elm. One of Peg Leg's 
traps was there and his rival was soon engaged in 
killing and extracting a mink from the steel jaws 
of the trap. The half-breed stole up to within a 
hundred yards. A report rang in the crisp air 
and a bullet crashed into the back of the Indian's 
head. The murderer left no trail near the frozen 
creek. He made a wide detour, returned to his 
post, after hiding his rifle in the snow, and awaited 
results. 

A couple of hours later Peg Leg hobbled along 
the white water course to inspect his traps. He 
followed Red Owl's trail and came upon the still 
form lying in the blood-stained snow on the ice. 
He speculated for some time over the mystery 
and went to the settlement to report what he had 
found. 

[60] 



THE STORY OF THE STREAM 

The broken-hearted Omemee went with those 
who departed for the scene of the tragedy. No 
trail was visible except those of Red Owl and Peg 
Leg. The old man's tracks were easily recognized. 
His denial of any guilty knowledge of the killing 
was met by silence and dark looks. Circumstan- 
tial evidence was against him. The motive was 
obvious and the story was on the snow. The par- 
tial justice of the retribution that had mysteri- 
ously fallen upon the thief did not lessen the 
innocent old trapper's sorrow and fear, for he 
knew that justice, age, or infirmity would be no 
bar to Indian revenge. He would never have 
killed Red Owl for interfering with his traps. A 
high wind and a snow storm came up in the after- 
noon that effectually baffled any further investiga- 
tion. The despondent old man kept the seclusion 
of his cabin and brooded over his trouble for sev- 
eral weeks. 

Red Owl was laid away after the customs of his 
people. Omemee departed into the wilderness to 
mourn for her dead. After many days she returned 
with the light in her eyes that gleams from those of 
the she-panther when her young have been killed 
before her — a light that an enemy sees but once. 

[61] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

In the spring Peg Leg left with his pack of 
winter pelts. He had once been cheated by Che- 
nault and preferred to do his trading where he had 
gone before the half-breed came. His journey 
consumed nearly two weeks. One evening at dusk 
he laboriously picked his way down the steep 
path into the ravine, laid his load of supplies on 
the rude bridge, and then signalled for help by 
pounding the bridge timbers with his hickory 
stump. He was worn out and could not carry 
his burden up the steep incline alone. 

Like a snake from its covert, a beautiful wild 
thing darted from the deep shadows of the pines. 
The moccasined feet made no sound on the logs. 
There was a gleam of steel, a lightning-like 
movement, and Omemee glided on out of the 
ravine into the gathering gloom. The silence was 
broken by a heavy splash below the side of the 
bridge, and when they found poor old Peg Leg 
the hilt of a knife protruded from between his 
shoulders. 

There was a hidden observer of the tragedy. 
Pierre Chenault had watched long and anxiously 
for the stroke of Omemee's revenge. The white 
man's law now gave him a coveted advantage. 

[62] 



THE STORY OF THE STREAM 

He broke cover and pursued the fast retreating 
figure. He would offer to conduct her to a place 
of safety, protect her and declare his love. 

Omemee ran with the speed of a deer in the 
direction of the home of her childhood. She fled 
out over the dunes to the shore of the lake. For 
miles along the wild wave-washed coast the two 
dim figures sped in the darkness. Omemee finally 
dropped from exhaustion. The half-breed carried 
her in his arms to the foot of the bluff where he 
built a small fire behind a mass of drift-wood, 
and sat beside her until the gray of the morning 
came over the sand-hills. They were now about 
twelve miles from the settlement. They walked 
along the beach together for several hours and 
turned into the dunes. 

After the April rains tender leaves unfolded in 
the trees around the bark wigwam where Omemee 
was born. The old chief had died two years be- 
fore, but a faint wreath of smoke ascended softly 
to the overhanging branches. Fastened above the 
door was a grisly and uncanny thing that moved 
fitfully to and fro when the winds blew from the 
lake. It was the scalp of Pierre Chenault. 

With the failure to obtain a government appro- 
[63] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

priation for a harbor at City West, the name of 
the new settlement, the embryo town vanished 
utterly and became a dream of the past. Its am- 
bitions and crushed hopes are entombed in ob- 
scure history. No vestiges of its buildings remain. 
There are traces of a crude mill race near the place 
where the now obliterated trail crossed the creek. 
Around the site of the old fort the trees, whose 
tops were cut away to clear the range for the six- 
pounders, have covered their wounds with new 
limbs that have grown from the mutilated trunks. 

Near the roots of a gnarled oak at a bend in the 
stream Peg Leg's dust has mingled with the black 
loam, where his spirit may be lulled by the pass- 
ing waters. When we seem to hear the tapping 
of the woodpecker on a hidden hollow tree in the 
depths of the dark ravine, it may be the echoes 
through the mists of the years of the strokes of 
the poor old trapper on the timbers of the bridge. 

The red man has gone. The currents of human 
passion that rose and fell along the banks of the 
little stream have passed into silence. The bistre- 
colored waters still flow out on the wide expanse 
of sand and spread their web of romance in the 
moon-light. 

[6 4 ] 



V 
THE MOON IN THE MARSH 





THE MOON IN THE MARSH 




(From the Author S Etching) 



V 
THE MOON IN THE MARSH 

THERE is a hazy mist on the horizon 
where the red rim of the October sun 
left the sky-line. The twilight of Indian 
Summer is stealing over the marsh. There is a 
hush of vibrant voices and a muffled movement 
of tiny life in the darkened places. Sorrow rests 
upon the world, for the time of the requiem of 
the leaves has come. The red arrows are abroad; 
a flush of crimson is creeping through the forest. 
An elusive fragrance of fruition is in the air, and 
a drowsy languor droops the stems and branches. 

Royal robes rustle faintly on the hills and in 
the shadows of the woods. From among the liv- 
ing trees a mighty presence has vanished. A 
queen who came in green has departed as a nun 
in gray, and the color fairies have entered the 
bereaved realm with offerings of red and gold. 

A vague unrest troubles the trembling aspens 
and the little sassafras trees that flock like timid 
children beyond the sturdy sycamores. The 

[67] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

gnarled oaks mutely await the winds of winter on 
their castanets of cold dead leaves — music of our 
Mother Earth to which we all must listen until 
our slumber hour comes. 

Through darkening masses of tangled thickets, 
and over bogs concealed by matted grasses, some 
soggy and decayed logs, covered with moss and 
slime, lead out over the wet margin of the tarn 
to the edge of the clear water. A startled bittern 
rises clumsily out of the rushes. A pair of wild 
ducks tower out and glide away over the tree- 
tops. There are stifled rustlings in the ferns and 
sedges, and little wings are fluttering furtively 
among unseen branches. There is a soft splash 
near the edge of the woods. From out the shadow 
the curling wake of a muskrat stretches across 
an open space. A mottled water-snake drops 
stealthily into a wet labyrinth — the muffled move- 
ments cease — and muted echoes of vesper choirs 
sweeten the solitude that broods over the tarn. 

After a period of silence another whir of pin- 
ions overhead heralds the return of the ducks. 
They circle swiftly and invisibly in the deep 
shadows — their silhouettes dart across the sky 
openings, and, with a loud swish, they strike the 

[68] 



THE MOON IN THE MARSH 

water and settle comfortably for the night behind 
some weedy bogs close to the opposite shore. 

In the gathering gloom tiny beams creep into 
the depths of the water. One by one the starry 
host begins to twinkle in the inverted canopy of 
the heavens. The full-orbed silver moon rides 
into the sky through the delicate lacery of the 
trees with a flood of soft light. Another disk 
sinks majestically into the abyss. 

The asterisms of the astronomer are in the fir- 
mament above, rolling in mighty cycles to the 
ordered destinies of the spheres, but the stars of 
Arcady are in the quiet pools, the placid bosoms 
of gently flowing rivers, and far out in seas that 
are beyond our ken. They sparkle in the smooth 
curves of heavy swells on distant deeps, and shine 
far below coral worlds in ocean depths. These 
stars are measureless. They gleam in awful pro- 
fundities and illumine a world of dreams. We 
may look down to them from the windows of a 
fair castle in which a noble spirit dwells, but 
beyond its walls we may not go. There are trav- 
ellers in that dimly lighted vault, for dark wings 
blur the points of pallid radiance in swift and 
silent flight. Eternity is not there, for its con- 

[6 9 ] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

stellations will tremble and vanish with a pass- 
ing zephyr on the surface of the pool. 

A white web of mist gathers on the water. A 
phosphorescent trunk in the distance glows with 
ghostly light. The fluffy movement of the wings 
of a small owl is visible against a patch of sky, 
and a moment later the dusky form whisks by in 
the gloom. Agile bats wheel and plunge noise- 
lessly in pursuit of invisible prey. A few bul- 
rushes in a near-by clump are slightly disturbed. 
The night life has begun to move in the slough, 
for it is nature's law that it must kill to live. 

The veil of mist thickens — the stars in the 
depths disappear — the moon's reflection becomes 
a nebula of pale effulgence, and is finally lost in 
vaporous obscurity. Like the soft fabric of for- 
getfulness that time weaves over sorrow, the mist 
envelopes the tarn. Like wraiths of dead years, 
filmy wreaths trail tenderly and delicately through 
the solemn woods. The purple darkness has be- 
come gray. A clammy wetness clings to the tall 
grasses. Beads of crystal on their bending points 
mirror feeble beams of light, and the heaviness of 
humidity is upon the boughs and fallen leaves. 

The moods of Nature are manifold in expression 

[70] 



THE MOON IN THE MARSH 

and power. In her infinite alchemy she reflects a 
different ray into every facet of the human soul. 
She echoes its exaltation, has sweet unguents for 
its weariness, and leads it upon lofty paths of 
promise when hope has died. The music of her 
strings brings forth hidden melodies, and it is 
with her that we must go if we would reach the 
heights. 

The dark morass becomes a dreamland. Through 
it stately legions go. Ethereal aisles wind through 
the trees. Cloudy walls rise along its borders, and 
beyond them are kingdoms in elf-land where fancy 
may spin fabrics of gossamer and build mansions 
remote from earthly being. 

There is a life of the soul as well as of the body. 
We may ponder as to its immortality, but undeni- 
ably it is in the present, if not in a state to come. 
Hope grasps at a shadowy vision of the future 
that dissolves at our touch. Reason gives only 
the substance of the present, elusive though it be. 
We live in a world of illusion, where seeming reali- 
ties may be but phantoms. We wander in a maze 
of speculative thought. The paths are intricate 
and only lead to narrow cells. The Forest Gods 
that dwell in the high and hidden places speak a 

C7i] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

language that is without words. The fallen leaf 
is as eloquent as established dogma or voice of 
hoary seer. In our own hearts must we find our 
shrines, for the obscurity beyond the border-land 
of philosophy is as deep as the mould below the 
leaves. The multitudes that have come upon the 
earth and vanished have left no clue. 

The key lies at the bottom of the tarn, and the 
story is in the marsh. 



[72] 



VI 
HOLY ZEKE 




"fWt7 £ \ E 



VI 

HOLY ZEKE 

"And mine eye shall not spare, neither will I 
have pity; I will recompense thee according to 
thy ways and thine abominations that are in 
the midst of thee; and ye shall know that I 
am the Lord that smiteth ." — Ezekiel 7:9 

AFTER an industrious day with my sketch 
book among the dunes, I walked over to 
the lake shore and looked up the beach 
toward Sipes's shanty. In the gathering twilight 
a faint gleam came through the small window. 
Not having seen my old friend for nearly a year, 
I decided to pay him a visit. My acquaintance 
with him had brought me many happy hours as 
I listened to his reminiscences, some of which are 
recorded in former stories. 

He had been a salt water sailor, and, with his 
shipmate Bill Saunders, had met with many thrill- 
ing adventures. He had finally drifted to the 
sand-hills, where he had found a quiet refuge 
after a stormy life. Fishing and hunting small 

[75] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

game yielded him a scanty but comparatively 
happy livelihood. He was a queer, bewhiskered 
little man, somewhere in the seventies, with many 
idiosyncrasies, a fund of unconscious humor, much 
profanity, a great deal of homely philosophy, and 
with many ideas that were peculiarly his own. 

He wore what he called a "hatch" over the 
place which his right eye formerly occupied, and 
explained the absence of the eye by telling me 
that it had been blown out in a gale somewhere off 
the coast of Japan. He said that "it was glass 
anyway" and he "never thought much of it." 
Saunders figured more or less in all of his stories 
of the sea. 

On approaching the nondescript driftwood struc- 
ture, I heard a stentorian voice, the tones of which 
the little shanty was too frail to confine, and which 
seemed to be pitched for the solemn pines that 
fringed the brink of the dark ravine beyond. 

"Now all ye hell-destined sinners that are in 
this holy edifice, listen to me ! Ye who are steeped 
in sin shall frizzle in the fires o' damnation. The 
seethin' cauldrons yawn. Ye have deserved the 
fiery pit an' yer already sentenced to it. Hell is 
gaping fer this whole outfit. The flames gather 

[76] 



HOLY ZEKE 

an' flash. The fury o' the wrath to come is almost 
'ere. Yer souls are damned an' you may all be in 
hell 'fore tomorrer mornin'. The red clouds o' 
comin' vengeance are over yer miserable heads. 
You'll be enveloped in fiery floods fer all eternity 
— fer millions of ages will ye sizzle. Ye hang by 
a slender thread. The flames may singe it any 
minute an' in ye go. Ye have reason to wonder 
that yer not already in hell! Yer accursed bodies 
shall be laid on live coals, an' with red-hot pitch- 
forks shall ye be sorted into writhin' piles an' 
hurled into bottomless pits of endless torment. 
I'm the scourge o' the Almighty. I'm Ezekiel- 
seven-nine. This is yer last chance to quit, an' 
you've got to git in line, an' do it quick if ye want 
to keep from bein' soused in torrents o' burnin' 
brimstone, an' have melted metal poured into yer 
blasphemous throats!" 

At this point the door partially opened and a 
furtive figure slipped out. "Let all them that has 
hard hearts an' soft heads git out!" roared the 
voice. The figure moved swiftly toward me and 
I recognized Sipes. 

"Gosh! Is that you? You keep away from 
that place," he sputtered, as he came up. 

[77] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

''What seems to be the trouble?" I asked. 

"It's Holy Zeke an' he's cussin' the bunch. It 
looks like we'd all have a gloomy finish. He was 
up 'ere this mornin' an' ast me if 'e could 'ave a 
revival in my place tonight. He's 'ad pretty 
much ev'rythin' else that was loose 'round 'ere, 
an' like a damn fool I told 'im O. K., an' this is 
wot I git. I thought it was sump'n else. You 
c'n go an' listen to 'is roar if you want to, but I 
got some business to 'tend to 'bout ten miles 
from 'ere, an' I wont be back 'till tomorrer, an' 
w'en I come back it'll be by water. I'm goin' to 
lay fer that ol' skeet with my scatter gun, an' 
he'll think he's got hot cinders under 'is skin w'en 
I git to 'im. I'll give 'im all the hell I can without 
murderin' 'im." Sipes then disappeared into the 
gloom, muttering to himself. 

His "scatter gun" was a sinister weapon. It 
had once been a smooth-bore army musket. The 
barrel had been sawed off to within a foot of the 
breach. It was kept loaded with about six ounces 
of black powder, and, wadded on top of this, was 
a handful of pellets which the old man had made 
of flour dough, mixed with red pepper, and hard- 
ened in the sun. He claimed that, at three rods, 

[78] 



HOLY ZEKE 

such a charge would go just under the skin. "It 
wouldn't kill nothin', but it 'ud be hot stuff." 

I sat on a pile of driftwood for some time and 
waited for the turmoil in the shanty to subside. 
Finally the door opened and four more figures 
emerged. I was glad to recognize my old friend 
"Happy Cal," whom I had not seen since his 
mysterious departure from the sand-hills several 
years ago, after his dispute with Sipes over some 
tangled set-lines. Evidently the two old derelicts 
had amicably adjusted their differences, and Cal 
had rejoined the widely scattered colony. Another 
old acquaintance, "Catfish John," was also in the 
party. After greetings were exchanged, John in- 
troduced me to a short stocky man with gray 
whiskers. 

"Shake hands with Bill Saunders," said he. 

This I did with pleasure, as Sipes's yarns of the 
many exploits of this supposedly mythical indi- 
vidual invested him with much interest. 

"This 'ere's Ezekiel-seven-nine," continued 
John, indicating the remaining member of the 
quartette. 

I offered "Ezekiel-seven-nine" my hand, but 
it was ignored. He looked at me sternly. "Yer 

[79] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

smokin' a vile an' filthy weed," said he. "It de- 
files yer soul an' yer body. It's an abomination 
in the sight o' the Lord. Yer unclean to my 
touch." With that he turned away. 

I glanced at his hands and if anything could 
be "unclean" to them its condition must be quite 
serious. I quite agreed with him, but from a dif- 
ferent standpoint, that the cigar was "an abomi- 
nation," and, after a few more doubtful whiffs, 
I threw it away, as I had been tempted to do 
several times after lighting it. Its purchase had 
proved an error of judgment. 

Zeke's impressions of me were evidently not 
very favorable. He walked away a short distance 
and stopped. In the dim light I could see that 
he was regarding us with disapproval. He took 
no part in the conversation. He finally seated 
himself on the sand and gazed moodily toward 
the lake for some time, probably reflecting upon 
the unutterable depravity of his present asso- 
ciates, and calculating their proximity to eternal 
fire. 

"Holy Zeke," as Sipes had called him, was 
about six feet two. His clothes indicated that 
they had been worn uninterruptedly for a long 

[8o] 



HOLY ZEKE 

time. The mass of bushy red whiskers would 
have offered a tempting refuge for wild mice, and 
from under his shaggy brows the piercing eyes 
glowed with fanatic light. 

Calvinism had placed its dark and heavy seal 
upon his soul, and the image of an angry and 
pitiless Creator enthralled his mind — a God who 
paves infernal regions with tender infants who 
neglect theology, who marks the fall of a, sparrow, 
but sends war, pestilence and famine to annihi- 
late the meek and pure in heart. 

The wonderful drama of the creation, and the 
beautiful story of Omnipotent love carried no 
message for him. Lakes of brimstone and fire 
awaited all of earth's blindly groping children who 
failed to find the creed of the self-elect. Not- 
withstanding the fad: that the national governing 
board of an orthodox church, with plenary powers, 
convened a few years ago, officially abolished in- 
fant damnation, and exonerated and redeemed all 
infants, who up to that time had been subjected 
to the fury of Divine wrath, Zeke's doctrine was 
unaltered. It glowed with undiminished fervor. 
He was a restless exponent of a vicious and cruel 
man-made dogma, which was as evil as the pun- 

[81] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

ishments it prescribed, and as futile as the re- 
wards it promised. 

To me Holy Zeke was an incarnation. His 
eyes and whiskers bespoke the flames of his theol- 
ogy, and his personality was suggestive of its place 
in modern thought. His battered plug hat was 
also Calvinistic. It looked like hades. It was inde- 
scribable. One edge of the rim had been scorched, 
and a rent in the side of the crown suggested the 
possibility of the escape of volcanic thought in 
that direction. Like his theology, he had pictur- 
esque quality. 

If he had been a Mohammedan, his eyes would 
have had the same gleam, and he would have 
called the faithful to prayer from a minaret with 
the same fierce fervor as that with which he con- 
jured up the eternal fires in Sipes's shanty. Had 
not Calvinism obsessed him, his type of mind 
might have made him a murderous criminal and 
outlaw, who, with submarines and poison gas, 
would deny mercy to mankind, for there was no 
quality of mercy in those cruel orbs. They were 
the baleful eyes of the jungle, that coldly regard 
the chances of the kill. In Holy Zeke's case the 
kill was the forcible snatching of the quarry from 

[82] 



HOLY ZEKE 

hell, not that he desired its salvation, but was 
anxious to deprive the devil of it. He had no idea 
of pointing a way to righteousness. There was no 
spiritual interest in the individual to be rescued. 
He was the devil's implacable enemy, and it was 
purely a matter of successful attack upon the 
property of his foe. Predestination or preordina- 
tion did not bother him. He made no distinc- 
tions. There was no escape for any human being 
whose belief differed from his; even the slight- 
est variation from his infallible creed meant the 
bottomless pit. 

Zeke had one redeeming quality. He was not a 
mercenary. No board of trustees paid him the 
wages of hypocrisy. He did not arch his brows 
and fingers and deliver carefully prepared eloquent 
addresses to the Creator, designed more for the 
ears of his listeners than for the throne above. 
He did not beseech the Almighty for private 
favors, or for money to pay a church debt. He 
regarded himself as a messenger of wrath, and 
considered that he was authorized to go forth and 
smite and curse anything and everything within 
his radius of action. This radius was restricted 
to the old derelicts who lived in the little drift- 

[8 3 ] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

wood shanties along the beach and among the 
sand-hills. There were but few of them, but the 
limited scope of Zeke's labors enabled him to con- 
centrate his power instead of diffusing and losing 
it in larger fields. 

Zeke soon left our little party and followed a 
path up into the ravine. After his departure we 
built a fire of driftwood, sat around it on the sand, 
and discussed the "scourge/' 

"I hate to see any thin' that looks like a fire, 
after wot we've been up ag'inst tonight," remarked 
Cal, as he threw on some more sticks, "but as 'e 
ain't 'ere to chuck us in, I guess we'll be safe if we 
don't put on too much wood. Where d'ye s'pose 
'e gits all that dope ? I had a Bible once't, but I 
didn't see nothin' like that in it. There was a 
place in it where some fellers got throwed in a 
fiery furnace an' nothin' happened to 'em at all, 
an' there was another place where it said that the 
wicked 'ud have their part in hell fire, but I 
didn't read all o' the book an' mebbe there's a 
lot o' hot stuff in it I missed. Wen did you fust 
see that ol' cuss, John?" 

Catfish John contemplated the fire for a while, 
shifted his quid of "natural leaf," and relighted his 

[8 4 ] 



HOLY ZEKE 

pipe. He always said that he "couldn't git no en- 
joyment out o' tobacco without usin' it both ways." 

"He come 'long by my place one day 'bout 
three years ago," said the old man. "It was Sun- 
day an' 'e stopped an' read some verses out of 
'is Bible while I was workin' on my boat. He said 
the Lord rested on the seventh day, an' I'd go to 
hell if I didn't stop work on the Sabbath. I told 
'im that my boat would go to hell if I didn't fix 
it, an' they wasn't no other day to do it. Then 
'e gave me wot 'e called 'tracks' fer me to read 
an' went on. The Almighty's got some funny 
fellers workin' fer 'im. This one's got hell on the 
brain an' 'e ought to stay out in the lake where it's 
cool. Ev'ry little while 'e comes 'round an' talks 
'bout loaves an' fishes, an' sometimes I give 'im 
a fish; w'en I have a lot of 'em. He does the loaf 
part 'imself, fer sometimes 'e sticks 'round fer an 
hour or two. Then 'e tells me some more 'bout 
hell an' goes off some'r's, prob'ly to cook 'is fish." 

"Sipes must 'a' come back. Let's go over 
there," suggested Saunders, as he called our at- 
tention to the glimmer of a light in the shanty. 

As we approached the place the light was ex- 
tinguished, and a voice called out, "Who's there?" 

[8 5 ] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

After the identity of the party had been estab- 
lished, and the assurance given that Holy Zeke 
was not in it, the light reappeared and we were 
hospitably received. 

"Wot did you fellers do with that hell-fire 
cuss?" demanded Sipes when we were all seated 
in the shanty. "Look wot's 'ere!" and he picked 
up a small, greasy hymn book which the orator 
had forgotten in the excitement. Sipes handed 
me the book. I opened it at random and read: 

"Not all the blood of beasts, on Jewish altars slain. 
Can give the guilty conscience peace, or wash away 
the stain." 

"Gimme that!" yelled Sipes, and I heard the 
little volume strike the sand somewhere out in 
the dark near the water. "Wot d'ye s'pose I got 
this place fer if it ain't to have peace an' quiet 
'ere, an' wot's this red-headed devil comin' 'round 
'ere fer an' fussin' me all up tell'n' me where I'm 
goin' w'en I die, w'en I don't give a whoop where 
I go when I die. That feller's bunk an' don't you 
fergit it, an' 'e's worse'n that, fer look 'ere wot I 
found in that basket where I had about two 
pounds o' salt pork!" 

[86] 



HOLY ZEKE 

He produced a piece of soiled and crumpled 
paper, on which were scrawled the following quo- 
tations: "Of their flesh shall ye not eat, and 
their carcass shall ye not touch. They are un- 
clean to you" (Leviticus n:8). "Cursed shall be 
thy basket and thy store" (Deuteronomy 28: 17). 

"It's all right fer 'im to cuss my basket if 'e 
wants to, but I ain't got no store. I'll bet 'e 
frisked that hunk o' pork an' chucked in them 
texts 'fore you fellers got 'ere an' I got in off'n 
the lake. It was in 'is big coat pocket all the 
time he was makin' that hot spiel, an' that's w'y 
'e didn't 'ave no room fer 'is hymn book. He's 
swiped my food an' I can't fry them texts, an' 
you fellers are all in on it fer I was goin' to cook 
the pork an' we'd all have sump'n to eat. He 
cert'nly spread hell 'round 'ere thick tonight. 
Some day he'll be yellin' fer ice all right. Who 
are them Leviticus an' Deuteronomy fellers any- 
how? They ain't no friends o' mine! 

"I'm weary o' that name o' Zekiel-seven-nine 
he's carryin' 'round. 'E ought to have an eight 
spot in it, an' with a six an' a ten 'e'd 'ave a 
straight an' it 'ud take a flush er a full house to 
beat 'im. I bet 'e's a poker sharp, an' 'e's hidin' 

[87] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

from sump'n over 'ere, an' 'e ain't the fust one 
that's done it. I seen 'im stewed once't an' 'e 
had a lovely still. He'd oozed in the juice over to 
the county seat an' come over 'ere an' felt bad 
about it in my shanty. He come up to the win- 
dow w'en I was fixin' my pipe an yelled, 'Bow 
ye not down 'afore idols!' I went out an' hustled 
'im in out o' the wet. It was rainin' pretty bad 
an' 'e was soaked, but 'e said 'e didn't care so 
long's none of it didn't git in 'is stummick. I 
dassent light a match near 'is breath. 

"I had 'im 'ere two days, an' 'e said he'd took 
sump'n by mistake, an' 'e had. I had to keep 
givin' 'im more air all the time. He drunk enough 
water the next mornin' to put out a big fire an' I 
guess 'e had one in 'im all right. After that 'e 
ast me if I had any whiskey, an' w'en I told 'im 
I didn't, 'e said 'e was glad of it, fer it was devil's 
lure. He'd 'a' stowed it if he'd got to it. I did 
'ave a little an' I guess now's a good time to git 
it out, an' I hope I don't find no texts stuck in 
the jug. We all need bracin' up, so 'ere goes! 
That feller's a blankety-blankety-blank-blank- 
blank, an' besides that 'e's got other faults!" 

It seems a pity to have to expurgate Sipes's 
[88] 



HOLY ZEKE 

original and ornate profanity from his discourses, 
but common decency requires it. The old man 
left the shanty with a lantern and shovel. A few 
minutes later we saw his light at the edge of the 
lake where he was washing the sand from the out- 
side of his jug. Evidently it had been buried 
treasure. 

"I've et an' drunk so much sand since I been 
livin' 'ere on this beach that my throat's all wore 
out an' full o' little holes, an' I ain't goin' to 
swaller no more'n I c'n help after this," he re- 
marked, as he came in and hung the lantern on 
its hook in the ceiling; "now you fellers drink 
hearty." 

At this juncture a wailing sepulchral voice, 
loud and deep, came out of the darkness in the 
distance. 

"Beware! Beware! Beware! In the earth 
have ye found damnation!" 

"There 'e is!" yelled Sipes, as he leaped across 
the floor for his scatter-gun. He ran out with it 
and was gone for some time. He returned with 
an expression of disgust on his weather-beaten 
face. "I'll wing that cuss some night 'fore the 
snow falls," he remarked, as he resumed his seat. 

[8 9 ] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

"We'd better soak up all this booze tonight fer it 
won't be safe in any o' the ground 'round 'ere any 
more. Gosh! but this is a fine country to live in!" 

The party broke up quite late. Happy Cal had 
imbibed rather freely. Catfish John had been 
more temperate, and thought he had "better go 
'long with Cal," and it seemed better that he 
should. As they went away I could hear Cal 
entertaining John with snatches of some old air 
about "wine, women, an' song." They stopped 
a while at the margin of the lake, where the wet 
sand made the walking better, and Cal affection- 
ately assured John of his eternal devotion. They 
then disappeared. 

I bade Sipes and his old shipmate good-night, 
and left them alone with the demon in the jug. 
There was very little chance of any of it ever 
falling into the hands of "the scourge," who was 
evidently lurking in the vicinity. 

The glory of the full moon over the lake caused 
Sipes to remark that "ev'rythin's full tonight," 
as he followed me out to bid me another good-by. 
After I left I could hear noisy vocalism in the 
shanty. The words, which were sung over and 
over, were: 

[9°] 



HOLY ZEKE 

"Comrades, comrades, ever since we was boys,—- 
Sharing each other s sorrows, sharing each other s 

joys. 
After each repetition there would be boisterous, 
rhythmic pounding of heavy boots on the wooden 

floor. 

While the song was in many keys, and was 
technically open to much criticism, it was evi- 
dently sincere. The old shipmates were happy, 
and, after all, besides happiness, how much is 
there in the world really worth striving for? 

I walked along the beach for a couple of miles 
to my temporary quarters in the dunes, and the 
stirring events of the evening furnished much 
food for reneftion. I was interested in the advent 
of Bill Saunders, concerning whom I had heard 
so much from Sipes. Bill was a good deal of a 
mystery. He had "showed up" a few days be- 
fore in response to a letter which Sipes told me 
he had "put in pustotfice fer 'im." He may at 
some time have lived on the "unknown island in 
the South Pacific" that Sipes told me about, 
where he and Bill had been wrecked, and Bill had 
"married into the royal family several times," 
but evidently he had deserted his black and tan 

[9i] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

household. For at least two years he had been 
living over on the river. Sipes explained that he 
stayed there "so as to be unbeknown." For some 
reason which I did not learn, he and Sipes con- 
sidered it advisable for him to "keep dark" for 
a while. The trouble, whatever it was, had evi- 
dently blown over, and Bill had returned to the 
sand-hills. 

There was a rudely painted sign on the shanty 
a few days later, which read: 

"It might 'a' been Saunders & Sipes," said 
the old man to me, confidentially, "but I think 
Sipes & Saunders sounds more dignified like, don't 
you? We got 'fresh fish' on the sign so's people 
won't git 'em mixed up with the kind o' fish John 
peddles. Them fish are fresh w'en John gits 'em 
'ere, but after 'e's 'ad 'em 'round a while there's 
invisible bein's gits into 'em out o' the air, an' 
you c'n smell 'em a mile. W'en they git to be 
candydates fer 'is smoke-house their oP friends 
wouldn't know 'em, an' I put them up an' down 
lines in them S's in them names so's to make the 
sign look like cash money." 

[92] 



HOLY ZEKE 

Several days later I discovered that my tent 
had been visited during my absence. Outside, 
pinned to the flap, was a piece of paper on which 
was written: 

"All ye who smoke or chew the filthy weed 
shall be damned." 

" The breath of hell, an angry breath, 
Supplies and fans the fire, 
When smokers taste the second death 
And shriek and howl, but cant expire." 

Inside, on the cot, were several tracts contain- 
ing extracts from sermons on hell by an old ranter 
of early New England days, setting forth the 
practical impossibility of anybody ever escaping it. 

I examined the literature with interest and 
amusement. Some of the more virulent para- 
graphs were marked for my benefit. 

I looked out over the landscape, with its glori- 
ous autumn coloring, to the expanse of turquoise 
waters beyond, and wondered if, above the fleecy 
clouds and the infinite blue of the heavens, there 
was an Omnipotent monstrosity Who gloried in 
the torture of what He created, and brought forth 
life that He might wreak vengeance upon it. 
Ignorance, fear, and superstition have led men into 

[93] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

strange paths. It may be that our philosophy 
will finally lead us back to the beginning, and 
teach us that we are humble, wondering children 
who do not understand, and that there is a border 
land beyond which we may not go. 

I met the firm of Sipes & Saunders on the beach 
one morning, on their way to Catfish John's 
place, which was about four miles from their 
shanty. John's abode was on a low bluff, and on 
the beach near it, about a hundred feet from the 
lake, was the little structure in which he smoked 
what Sipes called "them much-deceased fish" 
which he had failed to sell. His peddling trips 
were made through the back country with a queer 
little wagon and a rheumatic horse, that bore the 
name of "Napoleon" with his other troubles. 
Some of the fish were from his own nets, but most 
of his supplies were obtained from Sipes on a 
consignment basis. 

At the earnest solicitation of the old mariners, 
I turned back and went with them to call on 
John. Sipes said that I "had better come along 
fer there's goin' to be sump'n doin'." 

We found the old man out on the sand repair- 
ing his gill-nets. 

[94] 



HOLY ZEKE 

"Wot 'ave I done that I should be descended 
on like this?" he asked jocularly, as we came up. 
"You fellers must be lookin' fer trouble, fer Zeke's 
comin' 'ere this mornin' fer a fish that I told 'im 
'e could 'ave if I got any. 

"I figgered it all out," said Sipes, "cause Bill 
heard you tell 'im you was goin' to lift the nets 
Sunday, an' I seen you out'n the lake with the 
spotter, an' as Bill an' me's got some business 
with Zeke, we thought we'd drop 'round." 

Sipes's "spotter" was an old spy glass, which 
he declared "had been on salt water." Through 
a small hole in the side of his shanty he could 
sweep the curving shore for several miles with 
the rickety instrument. 

I walked over to the smoke-house with the 
party and inspected it with much interest. The 
smoke supply came from a dilapidated old stove 
on the sand from which a rusty pipe entered the 
side of the structure. The smoke escaped slowly 
through various cracks in the roof, which pro- 
vided a light draft for the fire. 

"That smoke gits a lot of experience in this 
place 'fore it goes out through them cracks," re- 
marked Sipes, as he opened the door and peered 

[95] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

inside. "I don't blame it fer leavin'. Can ye 
lock this door tight, John?" 

I curiously awaited further developments. 

It was not long before we saw Zeke plodding 
toward us on the sand. 

''Now don't you fellers say nothin'. You jest 
set 'round careless like, an' let me do the talkin'," 
cautioned Sipes, as he filled his pipe. With an 
expressive closing of his single eye, he turned to 
me confidentially and said with a chuckle, "We're 
goin' to fumigate Zeke." 

There was a look of quiet determination in his 
face, and guile in his smile as he contemplated 
the approaching visitor. 

"Hello, Zeke!" he called out, as soon as that 
frowsy individual was within hailing distance, 
"wot's the news from hell this fine mornin'?" 

We smiled at Sipes's sally. Zeke looked at us 
solemnly, and in deep impressive tones replied: 
"Verily, them that laughs at sin, laughs w'en 
their Maker frowns, laughs with the sword o' 
vengeance over their heads." 

"Oh, come on, Zeke, cut that out," said Sipes, 
"an' let's go in an' see the big sturgeon wot John 
got this mornin'. It's 'ere in the smoke-house." 

[96] 



HOLY ZEKE 

Sipes led the way to the door and opened it. 
Zeke peeked in cautiously. 

"It's over in that big box with them other fish 
near the wall," said Sipes. Zeke stepped inside. 
Sipes instantly closed the door and sprung the 
padlock that secured it. He then ran around to 
the stove and lighted the fuel with which it was 
stuffed. 

An angry roar came from the interior, as we 
departed. After we reached the damp sand on 
the shore, Sipes joyfully exclaimed, "Verily we'll 
now 'ave to git a new scourge, fer this one's up 
ag'inst damnation!" 

While John had passively acquiesced in the pro- 
ceedings, I knew that he did not intend to allow 
Sipes's escapade to go too far, so I did not worry 
about Zeke. 

As we walked down the shore, Sipes and Bill 
turned frequently to look at the softly ascending 
wreaths from the roof with much glee. 

"That coop's never 'ad nothin' wuss in it than 
it's got now," declared Sipes. "That ol' bunch 
o' whiskers 'as got wot's comin' to 'im this time, 
an' I wish I'd stuck John's rubber boots in that 
stove, but, honest, I fergot it." 

[97] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

We had gone quite a distance when I turned 
and discerned a retreating form far beyond the 
smoke-house close to the bluff. One side of the 
structure was wrecked, and it was evident that 
the "scourge" had broken through and escaped. 
I said nothing, as I did not want to mar the 
pleasure of the old shipmates. To them it was 
"the end of a perfect: day." 

A little further on I left them and turned into 
the dunes. As they waved farewell, Sipes called 
out cheerily, "You c'n travel anywheres 'round 
'ere now without git'n' burnt!" 

Later, from far away over the sands, I could 
faintly hear: 

"Shipmates, shipmates, ever since we was boys — 
Sharing each other s sorrows, sharing each other s 
joys! 

One night I encased myself in storm-defying 
raiment and went down to the shore to contem- 
plate a drama that was being enacted in the skies. 

Swiftly moving battalions of stygian clouds 
were illuminated by almost continuous flashes 
of lightning. Heavy peals of thunder rolled 
through the convoluted masses, and reverber- 

[98] 



HOLY ZEKE 

ated along the horizon. The wind-driven rain 
came in thin sheets that mingled with the flying 
spray from the waves that swept the beach. The 
sublimity of the storm was soul stirring and 
inspiring. I plodded for half a mile or so along 
the surf-washed sand to the foot of a bluff on 
which were a few old pines, to see the effect of 
the gnarled branches against the lightning-charged 
clouds. 

A brilliant flash revealed a silhouetted figure 
with gesticulating arms. It was Holy Zeke. His 
battered plug was jammed down over the back 
of his head, and his long coat tails were flapping 
in the gale. The apparition was grotesque and 
startling, but seemed naturally to take its place 
in the wild pageant of the elements. It added 
a note of human interest that seemed strangely 
harmonious. 

I did not wish to intrude on him, or allow him 
to interfere with my enjoyment of the storm, but 
passed near enough to hear his resonant voice 
above the roar of the wind. 

He was in his element. He had sought a height 
from which he could behold the scourging of the 
earth, and pour forth imprecations on imaginary 

[99] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

multitudes of heretics and unbelievers. With fa- 
natic fervor he was calling down curses upon a world 
of hopeless sin. Hatred of human kind was exhaled 
from his poisoned soul amid the fury of the storm. 

To his disordered imagination, any unusual 
manifestation of nature's forces was an expres- 
sion of Divine wrath. Condemnation was now 
coming out of the black vault above him, and the 
vengeance of an incensed Diety was being her- 
alded from on high. Unregenerate sinners and 
rejectors of Zeke's creed were in the hands of an 
angry God. The scroll of earth's infamy was 
being unrolled out of the clouds. "The seventh 
vial" was being poured out, and the hour of final 
damnation was at hand. 

In the armor of his infallible orthodoxy, like 
Ajax, he stood unafraid before the lurid shafts. 
Serene in his exclusive holiness he was immune 
from the fiery pit and the shambles of the damned, 
and gloried in the coming destruction of all those 
unblessed with his faultless dogma. 

The storm was increasing in violence, and I 
had started to return. After going some distance 
I turned for a final view of Zeke, and it was unex- 
pectedly dramatic. 

[ioo] 



HOLY ZEKE 

There was a sudden dazzling glare, and a deaf- 
ening crash. A tall tree, not far from where he 
stood, was shattered into fragments. The shock 
was terrific. He was gone when a succeeding 
flash lighted the scene. Fearing that the old 
man might have met fatality, or at least have 
been badly injured, I hurried back and climbed 
the steep path that led to the top of the promon- 
tory from the ravine beyond it. Careful search, 
with the aid of an electric pocket light and the 
lightning flashes, failed to reveal any traces of 
the old fanatic, and it was safe to assume that he 
had retreated in good order from surroundings 
that he had reluctantly decided were untenable. 

The bolt that struck the tree was charged with 
an obvious moral that was probably lost on the 
fugitive. 

The old shipmates were much interested when 
they heard the tale of the night's adventure. 

"That oP cuss'll git his, sometime, good an' 
plenty," observed Sipes. "Sump'n took a pot 
shot at Zeke an' made a bad score. It would 'a' 
helped some if the lightnin' 'ad only got that ol' 
hat o' his. Prob'ly it's been hit before. Zeke 'ad 
better look out. He's been talkin' too much 'bout 

[101] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

them things. It's too bad fer a nice tree like that 
to git all busted up. No feller with a two-gallon 
hat an' red whiskers ever oughta buzz 'round in 
a thunder storm." 

John was quite philosophical about Zeke. 

"He ought to learn to stay in w'en it's wet. 
His kind o' relig'n don't mix with water, an' some 
night 'e'll go out in a storm like that an' 'e won't 
come back. He was 'round 'ere this mornin' 
tell'n me 'bout the signs o' the times an' heav'nly 
fires. 

"Them oP fellers hadn't ought to fuss so 
much 'bout 'im. They come up 'ere the day 
after they smoked 'im, an' fixed my smoke-house 
all up fer me. They said thar was too many 
cracks 'round in it, an' the boards 'round the sides 
was all too thin. They got some heavy boards 
an' big nails an' they done a good job. They said 
they'd fixed it so it 'ud hold a grizzly b'ar if I 
wanted to keep one, an' I was glad they come up. 

"When Zeke broke through 'e didn't fergit 'is 
fish. He took the biggest one thar was in the 
box. When 'e went off 'e was yell'n sump'n 'bout 
them that stoned an' mocked the prophets, an' 
sump'n 'bout a feller named Elijah, that was 

[102] 



HOLY ZEKE 

goin' up in a big wind in a chair o' fire, but I 
didn't hear all of it, fer 'e was excited. Zeke's a 
poor ol' feller. It's all right fer 'em to cuss 'im, 
fer 'e gives it to 'em pretty hard w'en 'e gits 
down thar, but that don't do no harm. They 
ain't no nearer hell than they'd be without Zeke 
tell'n 'em 'bout it all the time. He's part o' the 
people what's 'round us, an' we ought to git 'long 
with 'im. I'll alw'ys give 'im a fish when 'e's 
hungry, even if 'e does think I'm goin' to hell." 



[103] 



VII 



THE LOVE AFFAIR OF HAPPY CAL 
AND ELVIREY SMETTERS 



VII 

THE LOVE AFFAIR OF HAPPY CAL 
AND ELVIREY SMETTERS 

HAPPY CAL" had been a member of the 
widely scattered colony of derelicts along 
the wild coast for many years; in fac% 
he was its beginning, for when he came through 
the sand-hills and gathered the driftwood to build 
his humble dwelling, there were no human neigh- 
bors. 

The circling gulls, the crows, and the big blue 
herons that stalked along the wave-washed beach 
looked curiously at the intruder into their soli- 
tudes. The blue-jays scolded boisterously, and 
many pairs of concealed eyes peered at him slyly 
from tangled masses of tree roots that lay denuded 
upon the slopes of the wind-swept dunes. 

Nature's slow and orderly processes of genera- 
tion and decay were now to be disturbed by a 
new element, for man, who changes, destroys, and 
makes ugly the fair world he looks upon, had en- 
tered these san&uaries. The furred and feathered 

[107] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

things instinctively resented the advent of the 
despoiler. They heard strange noises as rusty 
nails were pounded, and odd pieces of gray, 
smooth wood were fashioned into the queer-look- 
ing structure that obtruded itself among the undu- 
lations of the sand. 

Happy Cal was human wreckage. He had 
been thrown upon this desolate shore by the cruel 
forces of a social system which he was unable to 
combat. They had cast him aside and he had 
sought isolation. As he expressed it, "there was 
too much goin' on." 

Cal's stories of his early life, and his final escape 
from a heartless world, incited derisive comment 
from his friend Sipes. 

On still, cool days the smoke ascended softly 
from Cal's shanty, and my sketching was often 
neglected for an hour or two with its interesting 
occupant. 

He sometimes prowled around through the coun- 
try back of the dunes at night, and the necessaries 
for his rude housekeeping were collected gradu- 
ally. His age was difficult to guess; perhaps he 
looked older than he was. His lustreless eyes, 
weather-beaten face, grizzled unkempt beard, and 

[108] 



THE LOVE AFFAIR OF HAPPY CAL 

rough hands, carried the story of a struggle on 
the raw edges of life. 

While he said that he had "been up ag'inst it," 
he seemed now comparatively contented. His in- 
terests were few, but they filled his days, and, as 
he expressed it, he "didn't need nothin' to think 
about nights." Sipes claimed, however, that "Cal 
done all 's thinkin' at night, if 'e done any, fer 'e 
don't never do none in the daytime." 

Sipes and Cal met occasionally. With the ex- 
ception of a few serious misunderstandings, which 
were always eventually patched up, they got 
along very well with each other. Sipes's attitude, 
while generally friendly, was not very charitable. 
He was disposed to comment caustically upon the 
many flaws he found in Cal, who, he believed, 
was destined for a hot hereafter. It is only fair 
to Cal to say that Sipes did not know of anybody 
in the dune country who would not have a hot 
hereafter, except his friend "Catfish John," and 
his old shipmate, Bill Saunders, who lived with 
him, and with whom, in early life, he had sailed 
many stormy seas. He transacted his fish busi- 
ness with John, and was very fond of him. He 
once remarked that, "Old John don't never wash, 

[109] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

an' 'e smells pretty fishy, but you bet 'e treats 
me all right, an' wot's the difference? I c'n al- 
ways stay to wind'ard if I want to." 

Mrs. Elvirey Smetters lived over in the back 
country, on the road that led from the sleepy vil- 
lage to the marshy strip, and through it over into 
the dunes, where it was finally lost in the sand. 
It was a township line road and was seldom used 
for traffic. Travellers on it usually walked. The 
house, which had once been painted white, with 
green blinds, was rather shabby. Two tall ever- 
greens stood in the front yard. In the carefully 
kept flower-beds along the fence the geraniums, 
cockscombs, marigolds, and verbenas bloomed gor- 
geously. They were constantly refreshed from 
the wooden pump near the back door. A smooth 
path led from the front gate, flanked with a luxu- 
rious growth of myrtle. 

I pulled the brown bell handle one morning 
with a view of buying one of the young ducks 
which were waddling and quacking about the 
yard. I was going over to visit my old friend 
Sipes and intended it as a present for his Sunday 
dinner. 

Mrs. Smetters, whom I had often met, opened 
[no] 



THE LOVE AFFAIR OF HAPPY CAL 

the door. She wiped her face with her apron, 
and was profuse with her apologies for the appear- 
ance of everything. She explained at length the 
various causes that had brought about the dis- 
orderly conditions, which I must know would be 
different if so and so, and so and so, and so 
and so. 

She was tall, muscular, of many angles, red- 
headed, and freckled. The pupils of the piercing 
eyes behind the brass-rimmed spectacles had a 
reddish tinge, and her square, protruding chin sug- 
gested anything but domestic docility. It was 
such a chin that took Napoleon over the Alps, 
and Caesar into Gaul. 

She had buried three husbands. They were 
resting, as Sipes said, "fer the fust time in their 
lives," in the church-yard beyond the village, 
where flowers from the little garden were often 
laid upon the mounds. 

A village gossip had said that Mrs. Smetters 
would sometimes return to the mounds, after she 
had left them, and transfer a bunch of geraniums 
from one to another, and once, she had cleaned 
off two of them and piled all of the offerings over 
the one near the tree. Sometimes the others 

Cm] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

would have all of the geraniums. The gossips 
could see these things, but they could not look 
into the secret chambers of Elvirey Smetters's 
heart. 

On the walls of such chambers are recorded 
something that is never told. Thoughtful deeds, 
tender looks of sympathy and understanding, and 
years devoted, leave their traces there. With a 
thread of gossamer, memory leads us gently to 
them, and out into the world again, where we 
carry flowers to silent places. The strongest 
sometimes become the weakest, but who knows 
if such weakness is not the strength of the mighty? 

Time had softened the sorrows of Elvirey 
Smetters. Little wrinkles were beginning to tell 
the story of her passing years, for she was nearly 
sixty, and a sense of life's futility was creeping 
over her. She felt the need of new environment 
and new sensations. 

"Now before you begin talkin' about any duck 
you want to buy," said Mrs. Smetters, after the 
object of the visit was explained, "I want to know 
if you've seen anythin' o' Cal. I ain't seen 'im 
fer a month, an' if you run across 'im, I want you 
to tell 'im I'm sick, an' 'e better come an' see how 

[112] 



THE LOVE AFFAIR OF HAPPY CAL 

I am. I'll make you a present o' that duck if 
you'll just walk in on 'im an' tell 'im sump'n 
that don't look like it come from me, that'll make 
'im come over 'ere. You needn't let on that I 
want to see 'im, but you fix it somehow so's 'e'll 



come.' 



I solemnly promised to do this, but insisted 
upon settling for the duck, which was soon dressed 
and wrapped in an old copy of The Weekly 
Clarion, which was published at the county seat. 

"Now you be careful an' not let 'im know I 
said a word about 'im," was her parting injunc- 
tion at the gate, "but you git 'im 'ere, an' don't 
say nothin' to Sipes either!" 

She was assured that great care would be 

exercised. 

During the walk through the dunes I mused 
upon the wiles of Mrs. Smetters's sex, and re- 
flected upon the futility of any attempt to escape 
them, when they are practiced by an adept upon 
an average man. It is a world-old story — as 
old as the Garden of Eden. The lure of the femi- 
nine rules the earth, and it is a part of the scheme 
of things that it should be so. The female of all 
breathing creatures controls the wooing — from 

[ii3] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

the lady-bug to Elvirey Smetters. However mas- 
culine vanity may seek to disguise it, the wooer 
is as clay in the hands of the potter. The medi- 
tations of some of the world's greatest men have 
been devoted to the complexities of female human 
nature, and during these meditations they have 
often married. 

Along toward noon the duck was turned over 
to Sipes in front of his shanty. He was greatly 
pleased. It varied the monotony of small gifts 
of tobacco and cigars which usually reciprocated 
his many hospitalities. 

"Elvirey's got a lot o' them birds," he re- 
marked, "an' I was goin' over some night to per- 
suade one of 'em to come to my shanty. If she 
wasn't a woman, they'd all been gone long ago. 
I hear 'em spatterin' in the ditch ev'ry time I go 
by, an' I often think, s'posen them lily-white 
ducks b'longed to some o' them fellers that set 
'round the village store, wot would I do?" 

I inquired if he had seen anything of Cal 
lately. 

"Cal's snoopin' 'round 'is coop right now. 
You c'n see 'im with the spotter," said the old 
man, as he brought out his rickety old brass spy- 

[114] 



THE LOVE AFFAIR OF HAPPY CAL 

glass. Through it I could just make out a figure 
moving about on the sand near the distant shanty. 

I left the old mariner, intending to come out 
of the dunes near CaPs place sometime during the 
afternoon, being really anxious to accommodate 
Mrs. Smetters. 

In the course of time I reached Cal's shanty 
and found him sharpening a knife near the door. 
We shook hands and, after discussing various 
matters of mutual interest, I mentioned the call 
on Mrs. Smetters for the purpose of buying a 
duck for Sipes. 

" W'y didn't you git me a duck too if you was 
git'n one fer him?" he asked rather peevishly. 
He was placated with a cigar and the explanation 
that I had not expected to see him on this trip. 
He betrayed no curiosity at the mention of Mrs. 
Smetters. I tried again, and told him that I had 
had a long talk with her and she did not look as 
though she was very well; she appeared sad, 
and seemed ill. At this he began to show interest. 

"Wot d'ye s'pose is the matter with 'er? W'y 
don't she eat some catnip if she's sick?/' 

I replied that probably she found it rather 
lonely since her last husband died. 

[us] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

"Say, d'ye know wot I think I'll do? I'll go 
over there tomorrer an' take 'er some fresh fish, 
an' mebbe she'll gimme a duck. I ain't seen 'er 
fer a long time." 

Having approved of his suggestion, and realiz- 
ing that the mission had been accomplished, I 
departed after we had talked of other things for 
a while. Visits to Cal were always enjoyable, al- 
though his reminiscences were to be accepted with 
a grain of salt. His logic, morals, and language 
were bad, but his narratives had the charm of 
originality, and he never failed to be entertain- 
ing. Naturally, I was curious as to the outcome 
of the projected call on Mrs. Smetters, but not 
being concerned in further developments, I dis- 
missed it from my mind. Interest was quickly 
revived on meeting Sipes a month later. 

"Say, wot d'ye think's happened?" exclaimed 
the old man. "Elvirey's snared Cal good an' 
plenty. That ol' cuss has been up to see 'er a 
dozen times in the last two weeks. Bill an' me's 
been watchin' 'em with the spotter from up yonder 
in them trees on top o' that big dune where we 
c'n see 'er house. Say, you'd laugh yerself sick. 
Gener'ly 'e sneaks 'round an' goes along the edge 

[116] 



THE LOVE AFFAIR OF HAPPY CAL 

o' the marsh over back o' here, so's 'e won't 'ave 
to go by our place. Last night 'e come by with 
a collar on. His whiskers was combed an' so was 
'is hair. He was all lit up an' reminded Bill an* 
me o' that hiker we found walkin' on the beach 
once't that we piloted off a couple o' miles to 
show 'im where we told 'im 'e could cetch some 
mock-turtles. Bill's up there with the spotter 
watchin' now. We call that place the masthead." 

Far away I could see the glint of the spy-glass, 
and could dimly make out the figure of the lone 
sentinel in his eyry upon the height. He was 
ensconced in a mass of gnarled and tangled roots 
which the wind-blown sand had left bare on the 
distant hilltop. 

"We got a little place among them roots," 
said the old man, "that jest fits the spotter 
w'en it's trained on Elvirey's place, an' all ye 
have to do is jest set down an' look. Bill takes 
the fust watch w'en we can't see nothin' 'round 
Cal's shanty, an' I go aloft in the afternoon. We 
seen 'im twice yisterd'y. Him an' Elvirey was 
out in the yard waterin' the flowers. I s'pose 
she wants to keep 'em growin' nice so's she c'n 
lay 'em over Cal like she does the others. 

[117] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

"If there's sump'n doin' at Elvirey's, Bill'll 
hang a rag on that big dead limb ye see stickin' 
out, an' it's there now!" The fluttering signal 
of "sump'n doin'" was faintly visible. 

"That rag's jest to show he's seen Cal over 
there, an' if 'e thinks I oughta come up, 'e'll 
put out another in a minute. That 'ud mean 
that they was set'n out in the yard, er goin' off 
som'er's together, mebbe to the village." We kept 
our eyes on the summit for some time, but the 
second signal did not appear. 

A week later I found Cal at the home of the 
old shipmates. He looked rather crestfallen. An 
air of embarrassment and restraint seemed to per- 
vade the place. I feared that I had intruded, and 
was going away, when Sipes insisted that I re- 
main and go out on the lake with him. He 
thought that a recent storm might have damaged 
his gill-nets and wanted to look them over. After 
Cal's departure we shoved the row-boat into the 
water. On the way out to the nets the old man 
told me the thrilling tale of the love of Happy 
Cal and Elvirey Smetters. 

"This Elvirey's a queer ol' girl," he began. 
"Them husbands she's been git'n a c'lection of 

[118] 



THE LOVE AFFAIR OF HAPPY CAL 

over in the cemetery was a bum lot. Before she 
begun git'n married 'er name was Prokop. Fust 
she married a feller named Swisher, an' she was 
livin' with 'im w'en I fust come in the hills. He 
was no good, an' I never liked 'is name. It 
sounded kind o' fishy an' whistley to me. After 
a while Swisher commenced git'n thin an' all 
yellow, an' one day 'e skipped. She lit out after 
'im an' brought 'im back from over to the county 
seat. He died about a month later of sump'n 
the doctor said 'ad busted up 'is liver. He left 
'er that little place, where she lives. 

"The next feller's name was Smythe, an' 'e 
was a funny lookin' gink. He was runnin' a little 
circus wot went 'round the country in the sum- 
mer. He used to wear high brown boots with 'is 
trowsies stuck in 'em, an' a velvet vest, with a 
watch chain that weighed about a pound. He had 
a wide gray hat, an' a red neck-tie with a hunk 
o' glass on it, an' a long moustache that looked 
like a feather duster. He looked fierce, but 
Elvirey fell fer 'im w'en she seen 'im out in front 
of 'is tent on a box doin' a lot o' funny tricks 
with cards fer the crowd. The circus busted up 
an' 'e moved over to Elvirey's place. The circus 

[«9] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

posters said 'is name was Blondini, but 'is real 
name was Smith. He wrote it Smythe, so's to 
make folks think 'e had money an' was a society 
bug. He died o' sump'n, I don't know wot it 
was, an' then poor oP Smetters come along. He 
was a fat feller. He painted the house, an' fussed 
'round on the place fer a year, an' then 'ad fits. 
His conniptions would come on most any time, 
an' Elvirey let ol' Doc Looney in on to 'im one 
night, an' the next mornin' 'e was dead. The 
Doc 'ad given 'im some horse medicine, an' it 
finished 'im. 

"Them three are all layin' side by side, wait'n 
fer Cal, fer 'e told us this mornin' that 'im an' 
Elvirey's goin' to git married. 

"Bill an' me seen 'em from the masthead yis- 
terd'y, walkin' down the road. They set down 
on the grass, an' we sneaked over an' got behind 
some bushes, an' we heard 'im callin' 'er 'kitten' 
an' she was callin' 'im a duck. Bill says, 'Look 
at them columbines!' an' we busted out laughin'. 
Then they both roasted us fer listenin'. Cal was 
dead sore, but 'e didn't say very much. Elvirey 
pretty near killed Bill with a big stick, an' knocked 
'im into the bushes. He got up an' lit out, an' so 

[120] 



THE LOVE AFFAIR OF HAPPY CAL 

did I, fer after Bill was down she started fer me. 
I didn't need no clubbin' an' scooted. She chased 
me a ways, but I got home all right. I wonder 
w'y them that gits love-sick always calls each 
other animals an' birds?" 

During Sipes's narrative I felt a pang of regret 
that I had not spent the day at "the masthead," 
for evidently it would have been worth while. 

"Cal come over today an' we had a long talk," 
continued the old man. "He said 'e hoped they 
wasn't no hard feelin's, 'cause 'e hadn't started 
nothin' an' it was us fellers' fault that Elvirey 
got to goin'. Bill 'ad a bump on 'is head as big 
as an aig, but we all shook hands an' agreed to 
call it off. An' now comes this damn wedd'n 
they're goin' to have. Cal says they're goin' to 
be married by Holy Zeke, an' wot d'ye think? 
they want to have the wedd'n in our shanty, 
'cause Elvirey says she won't let Bill an' me come 
to her house, an' Cal won't be married 'less 'e 
c'n 'ave 'is friends with 'im. His shanty ain't 
big enough fer the bunch, an' ours is halfway 
between, so they've fixed on that, an' we're in 
fer it. 

"I don't know wot Cal's goin' to do about 'is 

[I2l] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

last name that 'e's got to be married with. He 
says 'e's been livin' alone so long 'e's fergot wot 
it is, an' we got to pick out a new one fer 'im. 
I told 'im 'e better call it Mud, but 'e didn't cetch 
on to no joke. Wouldn't that make a fine soundin' 
lot o' names fer Elvirey's lot in the church-yard? 
Swisher, Smythe, Smetters, an' Mud! Ev'ry- 
body'd stop to look at 'em. 

"Cal's gone to tell John, an' Saturd'y night 
him an' Holy Zeke'll come down, an' Cal's kitten's 
going to fetch a cake. Cal said you was invited, 
an' if you got any business to close up 'fore you 
come, you'd better 'tend to it, fer mebbe hell'll 
be to pay 'fore it's over. I'll bet Elvirey won't 
stand fer me an' Bill w'en she sees wot we're 
goin' to do to the shanty fer the wedd'n." 

After inspecting the nets we returned, and I 
promised to be on hand Saturday evening. Sipes 
requested me to come early, "so as to think o' 
sump'n us fellers might fergit." 

I looked forward to Saturday with eager antici- 
pation, and arrived at the shanty just before 
dusk. Evidently the old shipmates had been 
very busy. They were in high spirits. 

A couple of old fish-nets were stretched from 
[122] 



THE LOVE AFFAIR OF HAPPY CAL 

each side of the door, in parallel lines, to a point 
about fifty feet away on the sand. Boards, ob- 
tained from among the driftwood on the beach, had 
been laid along between them. " Bill's a big help 
about them things," said the old man. "He says 
it's 'is habit w'en 'e gits married to have sump'n 
like that stretched out fer the bride to walk be- 
tween so's nobody'll try to steal 'er at the last 
minute." 

The roof of the shanty was thickly covered with 
dead leaves, held in place by more nets which 
were laid over them and weighted with stones. 
"We could 'a' got green ones," said Sipes, "but 
them old leaves looks more fit like. They wasn't 
neither of 'em born yisterd'y. 

The rusty stove-pipe, which served as a chim- 
ney, had been carefully wrapped in white cloth, 
at least it had once been white, and a long strip 
of bright red material had been tied to it, which 
fluttered in the breeze. Sipes said that this was 
the danger signal. A large bunch of bulrushes 
and cat-tails was stuffed into the top of the 
stove-pipe. 

The sign on the shanty — 

[123] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

had been covered with a strip of rotten canvas, 
on which was painted, 

The conspirators had gathered a lot of thistle 
blossoms, with plenty of the leaves, with which 
they had festooned the interior. An old beer-keg, 
mounted on a box, which stood at one end of 
the single room, was to serve as the altar. On 
it were two lemons, with which time had not 
dealt very gently. Their significance was not 
explained. 

All over the shanty, where the decorations did 
not interfere, were groups of four vertical chalk- 
lines. "Them marks is Elvirey's score," explained 
the old man. 

A nail keg, with one end knocked out, hung 
endwise above the altar, and in the opening a 
large ripe tomato was suspended from the inside 
by a string. On the keg was painted a large 
figure 4. "That there's the marriage bell," said 
Sipes. 

A lantern on a hook in the ceiling, and a dozen 
candle stubs were to furnish illumination. The 
music was also provided for. There was a covered 

[124] 



THE LOVE AFFAIR OF HAPPY CAL 

box near the wall, with gimlet holes all over it, 
that evidently contained something alive. 

"That's full o' hummin' locusts that me an' 
Bill caught," said Sipes, "an' when Zeke says 
it's all over, I'll hammer on the box an' them 
little singers'll git busy. We tried 'em this 
mornin' an' it works fine." 

The stove was stuffed with stray pieces of old 
leather and rubber boots, mixed with oiled rags. 
"Wen we light that fire, with the chimbly 
stopped up with them cat-tails, it'll show that 
the party's over," chuckled the old man. 

The arrangements seemed quite complete, and 
I had no suggestions to offer. The wedding 
party was to assemble around a drift-wood fire 
on the sand, some distance away, and proceed 
to the shanty at eight o'clock. A huge pile of 
material for the bonfire had been gathered. 

The flames soon crackled merrily and lit up the 
beach. The red light touched the crests of the little 
waves that lapped the shore, and bathed the side of 
the sandy bluff with a mellow glow. It illuminated 
the shanty which, with its grotesque decorations, 
relieved against the dark green of the ravine be- 
yond, resembled a stage setting for a comic opera. 

[125] ' 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

The wedding guests soon began to arrive. 
"Catfish John," with a large package under 
his arm, accompanied by Holy Zeke, were the 
first comers, after the fire was lighted. They had 
walked a long distance, and sat down wearily on 
the sand, after the conventional greetings. John's 
package probably contained some smoked fish 
which he intended as a present for the bride. 
Sipes sniffed at it with evident approval. 

In a few minutes Mrs. Smetters arrived with 
her friend Mrs. McCafferty, who carried the cake 
in a basket. Mrs. McCafferty lived in the sleepy 
village, several miles away. She was to act as 
bridesmaid, and was to "give the bride away," 
which Sipes declared she would "do anyhow 
afterwards if she didn't do it now." She was a 
buxom Irish widow, with a fighting record, and 
a mind of her own. She had brought Mrs. Smet- 
ters to the wedding with her buggy and gray 
horse, which had been left where the sloping road 
ended in the beach sand. It was her custom to at- 
tend all of Elvirey's weddings in the same capac- 
ity. She was her bosom friend and confidante. 

Mrs. Smetters was attired in a new white mus- 
lin dress, with a bountiful corsage bouquet of 

[126] 



THE LOVE AFFAIR OF HAPPY CAL 

white peonies. She was bareheaded, and lilies 
of the valley accented the bricky red of her hair. 
As at all weddings, "the bride was very beautiful." 

We rose and greeted the ladies cordially. Mrs. 
Smetters looked inquiringly around for Cal, but 
he had not yet arrived. She then seated herself 
on the shawl which Mrs. McCafferty carefully 
spread out on the sand. No reference was made 
to the stormy scene of the interrupted wooing of 
a few days before. Bill was still nursing his sore 
head, but made no unpleasant allusions. 

The hour had arrived, but the party was 
still incomplete. Happy Cal was conspicuously 
absent. 

"Mebbe he's doin' a lot o' fixin' up an' can't 
find 'is perfumery, er mebbe he's fergot about the 
wedd'n," observed Sipes. 

An angry glance from Mrs. Smetters was the 
only response to this sally. 

The ladies looked curiously at the shanty, and 
Sipes had much difficulty in keeping them away 
from it. He announced that "they wasn't goin' 
to be no rubberin' 'round the place 'till the 
wedd'n." They started several times, but were 
persuaded to wait until Cal came. 

[127] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

An hour slipped by, and the delinquent did not 
appear. 

"Lo, the bridegroom cometh not," said Holy 
Zeke, solemnly. 

Clouds of feminine wrath were gathering on the 
other side of the fire. 

"We're goin* over to see them fixin's," an- 
nounced Mrs. Smetters, with determination. "This 
is wot I git fer wearin' my heart on my sleeve!" 

I walked along the beach in the hope that I 
might meet Cal. Sipes went to the shanty and 
lit the lantern and the candles. The two females 
led the rest of the party along between the nets. 
After they entered it took them but a few seconds 
to fully comprehend the tout ensemble, and then 
came the event of the evening. 

Mrs. McCafferty started to swoon, but sud- 
denly revived when Mrs. Smetters hurled a stove- 
lid at Sipes, followed by the keg from the altar. 
The male members of the party beat a rapid re- 
treat through the door into the welcome shadows. 
Sipes ran in my direction. We stood about a 
hundred yards away in the darkness, and sur- 
veyed the scene. 

With the fury of a woman scorned, Elvirey 
[128] 



THE LOVE AFFAIR OF HAPPY CAL 

was smashing up the place. With the able help 
of her bosom friend, every movable breakable 
thing was being destroyed and thrown out. The 
window was demolished early in the proceedings, 
and through the broken sash went wrecked cook- 
ing utensils, blankets, guns, cards, bottles, boxes, 
pieces of the table, and other things, too numer- 
ous to mention. Amid loud blows of an axe, the 
side of the shanty began to give way. 

Suddenly we heard piercing shrieks, and the 
two maddened women fled wildly from the shanty 
in the direction of the buggy. 

"I'll bet they've busted open them insects!" 
exclaimed Sipes. 

We waited a while, and looked for the other 
members of the party. We called repeatedly, but 
no answer came out of the gloom. They had 
been swallowed in the blackness of the night. 

We then went to inspect the wreck. All of the 
old shipmates' efforts to make the wedding a suc- 
cess had been "love's labor lost." The decora- 
tions were mingled with fragments of the stove 
and the splintered bunks. There seemed to be 
nothing in the place that was breakable that had 
not been attended to. The "hummin' locusts" 

[129] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

were innocently crawling about the floor and 
walls. 

"We might as well c'lect this music an' put it 
out," said Sipes, ruefully, as he began picking up 
the locusts. "We wouldn't 'a' had no shanty 
left if it hadn't been fer them. I guess I must 'a' 
started sump'n. After this I'm goin to let ev'ry 
feller run 'is own business, an' me an' Bill'll flock 
by ourselves. Look wot I git fer tryin' to please 
ev'rybody all the time! Somebody's always 
butt'n in an' spoilin' ev'rythin' I try to do. I 
got hit with too damn many things out o' the air 
tonight to be happy. Wot d'ye 'spose become 
o' Cal? He'd 'a' got a lemon if 'e'd 'a' married 
that ol' swivel-eyed sliver-cat. I'm goin' up in the 
ravine to sleep, an' mebbe Bill'll show up in the 
mornin'. Say, wot do you think o' matrimony, 
anyway? Gosh! but this is rough work. Bill 
an' me was in a hurricane once't out'n the Pacific 
— the ship's rudder got busted off an' we was 
spun along on the equator fer a thousand miles, 
but that wasn't nothin' 'side o' this." 

The old man stood disconsolate among his 
ruins. There was gloom on his face as I bade 
him good-night, and there was a pressure in his 

[130] 



THE LOVE AFFAIR OF HAPPY CAL 

hand grasp, as of one who did not want to be left 
alone. From a distance down the shore I could 
see the flickering light of the expiring bonfire, 
playing upon the scene of the recent drama, as 
fate toys with the destinies of human lives. 

Cal's failure to appear at his wedding was 
never accounted for. The following week we 
found his shanty deserted. Its simple furnish- 
ings and Cal's boat were gone. 

"That oP skeesicks 'as got more sense than I 
ever thought, an' 'e's skipped. He'll be number 
four in that cemetery lot all right if 'e ever shows 
up," declared Sipes as we parted. "She rough- 
housed me when I didn't do nothin', an' I wouldn't 
like to see Cal's finish if she ever gits to 'im. The 
feller that ought to marry Hellfirey Smetters is 
Holy Zeke." 

Perhaps from somewhere out in the darkness, 
Cal may have studied the group around the fire 
on the sand. Its light may have reflected the 
quiet gleam of tigerish ferocity that creeps into 
the eyes of a woman who is made to wait. He 
may have been appalled by the prospecl: of the 
loss of his much-loved freedom, and recoiled from 
further contact with a social system which had 

[131] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

discarded him, or he may have seen his "kitten" 
in a new light that dissipated illusion. 

Anyway, as Sipes declared, "Elvirey's duck" 
had "lit out." 

During a visit to Mrs. Smetters late in the fall, 
she gloomily remarked, "Now if you will tell me 
wot's the use o' livin, I'd be very grateful!" 



[132] 



VIII 

THE RESURRECTION OF BILL 
SAUNDERS 



VIII 

THE RESURRECTION OF BILL 
SAUNDERS 

SIPES and Saunders had acquired a de- 
tachable motor for their boat. Catfish 
John had obtained it on one of his vari- 
ous trips to the little village at the mouth of the 
river about fifteen miles away. The disgusted 
owner had traded it in on his fish account with 
John, and had thrown in, as a bonus, some gaso- 
line, mixing oil, a lot of damaged small tools, a 
much-worn book of instructions, and a great deal 
of conversation. He was careful to impress on 
John that he wanted no "come back," and was 
not responsible in any way for what the contrap- 
tion might or might not do after it left him. He 
had just had it "overhauled" by the makers for 
the third time, and he never wanted to see it again. 
John, knowing the great persistence and ingenu- 
ity of his friends, and feeling that he was in the 
way of doing them a favor, put the despised ma- 
chine in his wagon and departed. 

[>35] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

The following morning he drove up the beach 
to the fish shanty for his supplies. 

"Wot's all this iron fickits?" asked Sipes, as 
he peered curiously into the wagon. 

"That's a gas motor wot ye stick on the back 
o' yer boat. You fill up the tin thing with gaso- 
line an' some kind of oil, an' then whirl that wheel 
wot's got the little wooden handle on it, an' 'way 
she goes an' runs yer boat, an' ye don't 'ave to 
row, an' ye c'n go anywheres whar it's wet. I 
traded wot a feller owed me fer 'bout fifty 
pounds o' fish fer it, an' if you fellers want it, ye 
c'n 'ave it if ye gimme the fish." 

"Bill, come 'ere!" yelled Sipes. 

The tousled gray head of Bill Saunders ap- 
peared in the doorway of the shanty. 

"Wot's doin'?" he asked sleepily. 

"Never you mind; you put on yer trowsies an' 
come on out 'ere an' see wot our ol' friend an' 
feller-citizen 'as fetched in." 

Without following Sipes's instructions implic- 
itly, the disturbed occupant of the shanty came 
out to the wagon. 

"This 'ere little book wot the feller gave me," 
continued John, "has got it all in, with pitchers 

[136] 



RESURRECTION OF BILL SAUNDERS 

of all the little things in the machine, an' how to 
grease it, an' run it, an' ev'rythin' about it. 
Thar's a lot o' figgers in it wot tells wot ye pay 
fer all the things that gits busted." 

On the cover of the worn book, which the old 
man produced, was a highly colored picture of a 
slender youth, gay and debonair, with one of the 
machines in a canvas carrying bag. He swung it 
lightly and merrily in his hand as he tripped along 
toward his boat, which floated in the distance, 
where soft ripples laved its polished sides with 
pink water. His derby hat was tilted to a care- 
less angle. On his face was a smile of joyful an- 
ticipation. There was no more suggestion of 
exertion than if the bag contained toy balloons 
instead of a motor. Nevertheless it required the 
united efforts of the three weather-buffeted old 
fishermen to get the machine out of the wagon 
on to the beach. Such is the contrast between 
exuberant youth and seasoned maturity. 

"I bet that feller with the hard-boiled hat ain't 
got the machine in that bag at all," remarked 
Saunders, as he studied the scene on the cover. 
"They's prob'ly some fellers follerin' 'im with it 
that don't show in the pitcher. I don't like that cig- 

[137] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

arette moustache on 'im; I'll bet 'e knows durned 
little 'bout navigation 'ceptin' with crackers on 
soup. You leave this thing 'ere an' me an' Sipes'll 
try 'er out, an' if it works, we'll keep 'er. Anyhow 
we'll make up the fish yer out an' you won't lose 
nothin'." 

The fish for John's peddling trip were carefully 
sorted out and recorded by Sipes, with a stubby 
pencil, on the inside of the shanty door where the 
accounts were kept. The nets had been lifted in 
the early morning and the supply was abundant. 
When John had sold the fish the proceeds were 
to be divided equally. 

After John and his aged horse "Napoleon" had 
left with the slimy merchandise, the old ship- 
mates sat down and considered the apparatus. 

To this primitive coast, torn by the storms and 
yellowed by the suns of thousands of years, where 
elemental forces had ruled since the beginning, 
had come a strange and misfitting thing. It 
seemed an unhallowed and discordant intrusion 
into the Great Harmonies. Somehow we can, in 
a measure, be reconciled, poetically, to the use 
of steam, without great violence to our worship 
of the grandeur of nature's forces, but there is 

[138] 



RESURRECTION OF BILL SAUNDERS 

no poetry in a gasoline engine. It is a fiend that 
wars upon things spiritual. Its dissonant soul- 
offending clatter on the rivers that flow gently 
through venerable woods, and out in the soli- 
tudes of wide and quiet waters is profanation. 

Utilitarianism and ideality clashed when the 
motor touched the beach, but these things did not 
disturb Sipes and Saunders, engaged in the con- 
templation of the machine, as bewildered sav- 
ages might gaze upon a fragment of a meteor that 
had dropped out of the sky from another world. 

After a while they lugged it to the shanty. "I 
could 'a' carried it alone if I'd 'a' had one o' them 
darby hats on!" declared Sipes. 

They spent long hours over the book of in- 
structions, and the light in the shanty burned far 
into the night. They carefully and repeatedly 
examined the various parts in connection with 
the text. There were some words which they did 
not understand, but they finally felt that they had 
mastered the problem. 

Saunders remarked, as they turned into their 
bunks, "I guess we got 'er, Sipes. We'll pour in 
the juice an' start 'er up in the mornin'. Then 
we'll buzz off on the lake an' look at the nets." 

[139] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

"She oughta have a name on 'er, like a boat," 
suggested Sipes. "S'pose we call 'er the 'Anabel,' 
er sump'n like that?" 

"'Anabel' ain't no kind of a name fer anythin' 
o' this kind. I seen that name on a sailboat 
once't that didn't make no noise at all, an' this 
thing will. Wot's the matter with 'June Bug'?" 

"All right," said Sipes, "'June Bug' she is, now 
let's go to sleep." 

Loud snores resounded in the shanty, and the 
"June Bug" spent the night on the floor near the 
stove. Fortunately there was no leak in the gaso- 
line tank or fire in the stove. 

With the coming of dawn the old cronies hastily 
prepared breakfast. The lake was calm and 
everything seemed propitious for the initial voy- 
age with the June Bug. That deceptive bit of 
machinery was carefully carried to the big flat- 
bottomed boat, and, after an hour of hard work, 
was securely attached to the wide stern. The 
gasoline tank was filled to the top, the batteries 
adjusted, the spark tested, and every detail 
seemed to tally with the directions. Sipes gave 
the fly-wheel a couple of quick turns. The motor 
responded instantly. The propeller ran in the 

[140] 



RESURRECTION OF BILL SAUNDERS 

air with a cheerful hum, and the regular detona- 
tions of the little engine awoke the echoes along 
the shore. 

With shouts of boyish glee the old shipmates 
pushed the big boat over the rollers on the sand 
and down into the water. There was much dis- 
cussion as to which should run the engine and 
steer. Sipes produced a penny and, by flipping it 
skilfully, won the decision. 

"I don't s'pose they's any use takin' the oars, 
but I'll put 'em in," he observed as he threw them 
into the boat. 

Saunders complacently took his place forward. 
Sipes gave the boat a final shove and jumped in. 
He pushed it well out with one of the oars, and 
turned and looked with pride on the wonderful 
labor-saving device on the stern. It seemed too 
good to be true. 

"Say, Bill, to think that us fellers c'n go hun- 
dreds o' miles out'n the lake, if we want to, an' 
ev'rywhere else, an' let this dingus do all the 
work. We c'n set an' smoke an' watch the foam, 
an' listen to the hummin' o' the Bug. I've heard 
fellers go by way out b'yond the nets with them 
choo-choo boats, but I never seen wot did it 

[ho 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

before. Gosh! but this is fine. Now all we gotta 
do is to touch 'er off an' away we go!" 

The old man's single eye beamed with enthu- 
siasm, as he grasped the handle and made the 
prescribed turns. The result was a couple of 
pops and some coughing sounds somewhere in the 
concealed iron recesses. 

"Guess she's coy, an' I didn't give 'er enough. 
I'll whirl 'er some more." His efforts were again 
ineffectual. 

"Lemme try 'er," pleaded Saunders. 

"Not on yer life! You keep off. You don't 
know nothin' 'bout machines. She'll be all right 
in a minute. Gimme that book!" 

The boat drifted sideways for some time while 
Sipes studied the directions and puttered over the 
parts with various tools. 

"I'll jolly 'er up with the screw-driver an' 
monkey-wrench, an' she'll feel better." He tink- 
ered and cranked for nearly an hour, during 
which time Saunders offered many ill-received 
suggestions. Then came a torrent of invective. 

"You got too many whiskers to swear like 
that," remarked Saunders, "you'll burn 'em." 

"Never you mind, I'm watchin' 'em! The man 
[142] 



RESURRECTION OF BILL SAUNDERS 

wot 'ud make a thing like this, an' take good cash 
money fer it, er even fish, oughta be cut up an' 
sizzled!" he declared. "The skin's all offen my 
hands, an' I wish the devil wot built this gas bug 
'ud 'ave to keep 'is head in hot tar 'til she went. 
Come 'ere, Bill, an' start 'er up. You seem to 
know so much about it." 

They exchanged places and Sipes glared mali- 
ciously at the rebellious motor from the bow. 
Saunders put his pipe in his pocket, produced a 
chunk of "plug twist," and bit off a large piece. 
He stowed it comfortably and considered the 
problem before him. After a couple of hours of 
fruitless efforts the profanity in the boat became 
unified and vociferous. The ancestors of the 
makers of the motor, and those of the man who 
had it last, as well as the undoubted destiny of 
everybody who had ever had any connection with 
it, were embraced in sulphuric execration. John 
was, in a way, excepted. He "meant well," but 
he was "a damned old fool." 

After this general vituperation the old sailors 
rested for a while and rowed back. The constant 
cranking had turned the propeller a great many 
times. The boat had made erratic headway and 

[143] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

was quite a distance from shore. They landed, 
pulled the boat out on the sand with the wind- 
lass, and retired to the shanty for lunch and 
consultation. 

Saunders strolled out a little later, with a piece 
of cold fried fish in his hand, and looked the motor 
over again. He gave the fly-wheel a careless turn 
and the engine started off gayly. Sipes heard the 
welcome sound and ran out, spilling his coffee 
over the door step. Lunch was discontinued, and 
the boat was re-floated. There was more crank- 
ing, but no answering vibrations. With more 
profanity the craft was restored to its berth on 
the sand, and another retreat made to the shanty. 

"The Bug'll run all right on land," declared 
Sipes, "an' we'll turn the propeller so's the edges'll 
be fore an' aft, an' belay it. We'll bend a rim 
on it an' fasten some little truck wheels on the 
bottom o' the boat. Then we'll run the ol' girl 
up an' down on the hard sand 'long the edge o' 
the water. We won't go in the lake at all 'til 
we git 'er well het up, an' then we'll turn 'er in 
sudden an' cut them lashin's. She won't know 
she's in an' 'way she'll go." 

For many days the old shipmates struggled 
[i44] 



RESURRECTION OF BILL SAUNDERS 

with the obstinate mechanism. It once ran for 
an hour without a break and they were jubilant. 
"Some gas bug that!" Saunders exclaimed joy- 
fully, but just then it sputtered and stopped. 
They were quite a ways out, and the oars had 
been forgotten. Fortunately there was a light 
in-shore breeze and they drifted to the beach about 
two miles from home. 

The oars were finally procured and the day 
closed with everything snug and tight at the 
shanty. 

"I bet we ain't got the right kind o' gasoline," 
declared Sipes. "They's lots o' kinds. This 'ere 
wot's in the Bug ain't got no kick to it. We got 
too much oil mixed in it, an' we gotta git s'more." 

When John came again the many troubles were 
related to him. He knew nothing of motors, but 
offered to get some more gasoline when he went 
to the village, and to bring the former owner of 
the motor over to see if he could suggest any- 
thing. 

"You jest fetch that feller," said Sipes, "an' 
we'll take 'im out fer a nice little spin on the lake, 
an' we'll go where it's deep." 

When the new gasoline came there was much 
[145] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

more tinkering and study of the directions. 
Resignation alternated with hope. Sometimes 
the motor would run, but more often it refused. 
John finally took it to the village and it was 
shipped to the makers. A carefully and pain- 
fully composed letter was put in the "pustoffice." 
The long-delayed answer was that the machine 
needed "overhauling," which would cost about 
half as much as a new one. 

"The money that them pie-biters makes ain't 
sellin' motors, but overhaulin' 'em," declared 
Sipes. They sell one o' them bum things an' git 
their hooks in an' git a stiddy income from it 
long as you'll stand fer it." 

It was decided, after much discussion, to send 
the money "fer the overhaulin'." Several months 
elapsed. The machine came back too late to be 
of further use that season, and was carefully 
stowed away for the winter. 

"She'll prob'ly need another 'overhaulin" in 
the spring 'fore she'll go, an' them fellers'll want 
to nick us ag'in an' keep 'er all next summer," said 
Saunders. "If they charged by the days they 
kep' 'er instid o' by the job, we'd be busted. 
They'll bust us anyhow, an' it might as well be 

[i 4 6] 



RESURRECTION OF BILL SAUNDERS 

all at one crack. The Bug's goin' to stay in the 
house now, where she won't git wet. She ain't 
goin' out on the vasty deep no more 'til spring. 
If she gits uneasy, she c'n run 'round in 'ere." 

The following May I called at the shanty and 
found Sipes sitting disconsolately in the door-way. 
After visiting with him for a while, I inquired for 
Saunders. 

"Poor Bill's dead. I ain't got no partner now 
an' it's awful lonesome. He was a nice ol' feller. 
He fussed 'round with the gas bug fer days an' 
days, an' 'e couldn't make it go. He come in 
one night late, an' the next mornin' 'e didn't git 
up. He didn't seem in 'is right mind. His hand 
'ud keep goin' 'round an' 'round, like it was 
crankin' sump'n. Then 'e'd make sputterin' 
sounds with 'is mouth like as if a motor was 
goin', an' then 'e'd keep still a long time like the 
Bug does, an' then begin ag'in. He wouldn't eat 
nothin', an' one night he said 'e guessed 'e needed 
overhaulin'. Then 'e said 'choo-choo! choo-choo!' 
three er four times, an' 'e was gone. Come on 
with me an' I'll show you where 'e was laid away." 

We walked along the shore a short distance, 
crossed the beach and climbed the bluff. Near 

[147] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

the foot of an old pine was a mound, on which 
was scattered the dried remnants of many spring 
flowers, which probably had come from the low 
ground in the ravine. Several bunches of white 
trilliums, with their leaves and roots, had been 
transplanted to the mound, but they had with- 
ered and died. A wide board, which protruded 
from the ground at the head of the grave, bore 
the rude inscription: 

Under the name was a rough drawing of the fly- 
wheel of the motor, evidently made with Sipes's 
stubby pencil. 

Chiselled epitaphs on granite tombs have said, 
but told no more. 

We stood for some time before the mound. 
The old sailor wiped a tear from his single eye as 
we left Bill's last resting place in silence and 
sorrow. 

"Him an' me was shipmates," said the old man 
sadly, as we returned to the shanty. "I off'n go 
up there an' set down an' think about 'im. Bill 
was honest. They's lots o' fellers that wouldn't 
swipe nothin' that was red-hot an' nailed down, 

[148] 



RESURRECTION OF BILL SAUNDERS 

'spesh'ly 'round 'ere, but Bill never'd touch 
nothin' that didn't b'long to him er me. It was 
the gas bug that killed 'im. Fust it made 'im 
daffy an' then it finished 'im. She's over there 
now on the stern o' the boat. I ain't never had 
'er out this year, but I'm goin' to try 'er once't, 
jest fer Bill's sake. I think 'e'd like to have me 
do it." 

After many condolences, and a general review 
of the Bug's disgraceful career by Sipes, I picked 
up my sketching outfit and resumed my journey, 
depressed, as we all are, by a sense of the tran- 
sience and unsolvable mystery of life, when we 
have stood near one who has gone. 

One calm morning, about a month later, I was 
rowing on the lake several miles from Sipes's 
shanty. A boat appeared in the distance. Its 
high sides, broad beam, the labored, intermittent 
coughing of a motor, and the doughty little be- 
whiskered figure on the stern seat were unmis- 
takable. Sipes altered his course slightly so as 
to pass within fifty or sixty yards. I wondered 
why he did not come nearer. He went on by 
with a cheery "Wot Oh!" and a friendly wave 
of his hand. Evidently he was on some errand 

[149] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

that he did not want to explain, or was afraid to 
stop the motor, fearing that it would not start 
again. In a few weeks I encountered him again, 
under almost identical conditions. His nets were 
nowhere in the vicinity. 

In the early fall I found an old flat-roofed hut, 
built with faced logs, about six miles down the 
coast, in the direction that the old man had been 
going when I had last seen him. It was in a 
hollow near the top of a high bluff that faced the 
lake. It was effectually hidden from the water 
and shore by a bank of sand and tangled growth 
along the edge of the bluff. Built against the 
outside was a large dilapidated brick chimney, 
entirely out of proportion in size to the cabin. 
No smoke issued from it and the place seemed 
deserted. I went down to the beach. A mile or 
so further on I found a fisherman repairing a boat 
on the sand, and asked him about the cabin. 

"That place is witched," he declared. "Thar's 
funny doin's 'round thar at night an' don't you 
go near it. Thar's a white thing that dances on 
the roof. It goes up an' down an' out o' sight, 
an' then thar's a big thunderin' noise. I don't 
want to know no more 'bout it'n I know now. It 

[ISO] 







,pr 






THE "BOGIE HOUSE' 



{From the Author's Etching) 



RESURRECTION OF BILL SAUNDERS 

don't look right to me. I seen a wild man 'round 
'ere in the woods once't, a couple o' years ago, 
an' mebbe he lived thar an' 'e's dead an' 'e hants 
that place. I don't come 'round 'ere often an' I 
don't want to." 

My curiosity was aroused and I decided to 
investigate the mystery when an opportunity 
came. About nine o'clock one night I walked up 
a little trail in the sand that led toward the cabin 
from the woods back of the bluff. There was a 
dim light inside that was extinguished when I 
carelessly stepped on a mass of dead brush that 
had been piled across the path. The breaking of 
the little sticks had made quite a noise. Imme- 
diately a long, wavy, white object appeared over 
the roof of the cabin. It vaguely resembled a 
human shape and looked peculiarly uncanny. It 
swayed back and forth a few times and then 
seemed to grow taller. The trees beyond were 
partially visible through it in the uncertain light. 
Clearly I was in the presence of a spook. The 
apparition vanished as suddenly as it came. 
Then a dull, hollow sound came from the cabin, 
followed by a low, rasping, ringing noise. When 
it ceased, the silence was weird and oppressive. 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

I went on by the structure to the edge of the 
bluff, where another pile of dry brush obstructed 
the path, and purposely walked on it, instead of 
over the high sand on the sides of the opening. 
The breaking sticks made more noise. I turned 
and again saw the spectral form over the roof. 
The wraith swayed slowly to the right and left, 
bent backward and forward a few times, grew 
longer and shorter, and disappeared as before. 

In departing I stumbled over a board which 
stuck out of the sand, and in the dim light could 
distinguish the words "Dinnymite — Keep Out!" 
heavily scrawled on it with red paint. 

Evidently visitors were not wanted, and the 
tell-tale brush-piles were designed to give alarm 
of the approach of intruders. The functions of 
the filmy ghost and the queer sounds were to 
inspire terror of the place. 

I related my experience to Sipes the next time 
I saw him. He was deeply interested. 

"Did ye hear any groanin' after them funny 
sounds?" he asked, with a quizzical look in his 
eye. I replied that I had not. 

"I'll tell ye wot we'll do," said he, after a few 
moments of reflection, "you an' me'll go down to 

[152] 



RESURRECTION OF BILL SAUNDERS 

that bogie house some time an' we'll butt in an' 
see wot's doin\ I gotta go that way in the boat 
next week. We'll take the gun, an' mebbe we'll 
blow that bogie offen the top o' the house. I seen 
that place last year an' I know where it is." 

I did not approve of the idea of needlessly in- 
vading the privacy of anybody who did not want 
to see us, and who had inhospitably stocked their 
domain with brush-piles, ghosts, and forbidding 
placards, but there was a strange look in Sipes's 
eye that convinced me that the trip might in some 
way be justified. 

On the appointed day we made the start. "I 
always spend jest an hour tunin' up the Bug," 
remarked the old man, as he began cranking the 
motor, "an' then if she don't pop, I cuss 'er out 
fer jest fifteen minutes, an' then I row. Hell, I 
gotta have some system!" 

Fortunately the Bug was in good humor and 
took us three-quarters of the distance without a 
break. It then went to sleep, and half an hour's 
cranking and assiduous docloring failed to arouse it. 

"I got a great scheme," said Sipes. "Wen 
she gits like that I fasten the steerin' gear solid 
fer the way I want to go, an' then w'en I keep on 

[153] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

crankin', the propeller goes 'round an' 'round, 
an' I keep goin' some." 

A little later a single turn of the fly-wheel 
started the treacherous device, but it was going 
backward. Sipes promptly seized the oars 
and turned the stern of the boat toward our 
destination. 

"We got 'er now! Jest keep quiet an' touch 
wood! Sometimes she likes to do that, an' if I 
try to reverse 'er she'll balk. She thinks it's time 
to go home, but it ain't. This crawfish navigat'n's 
fine w'en ye git used to it." 

We landed beyond a point on the beach which 
was opposite to the cabin. After we had secured 
the boat to some heavy drift-wood with a long 
rope, I followed Sipes up the side of a bluff west 
of the cabin. We made a detour through the 
woods and approached it at dusk. The dry brush- 
piles practically surrounded it at a distance of 
about fifty yards. 

"Don't step on none o' them sticks," cautioned 
Sipes. He gave a low, peculiar whistle, which was 
answered from the cabin. "That there's the high 
sign," he remarked, as we walked to the door. 
We were greeted by Bill Saunders, alive and in 

[154] 



RESURRECTION OF BILL SAUNDERS 

the flesh. He seemed surprised that Sipes had 
brought a visitor, but was very cordial. Sipes 
greatly enjoyed the situation and chuckled over 
what he considered an immense joke. 

"You see it's like this," he explained. "Bill 
got to thinkin' wot's the use o' gasoline? W'y 
not have sump'n that 'ud run ferever, an' not 
'ave to keep buyin' that stuff all the time? He'd 
set an' think about it in the shanty an' then 
somebody'd butt in an' mess up 'is thinkin'. 
He'd go 'way off an' set on the sand by 'isself, 
an' then some geezer'd come snoopin' 'long an' 
chin 'im, an' 'e couldn't git no thinkin' done. 

"That cussed dog o' Cal's come 'long the beach 
one mornin'. He's bin runnin' wild since Cal lit 
out. Fer years this whole country's been fussed 
up with 'im an' 'is doin's. He died jest as 'e was 
pass'n the shanty. We buried 'im up there on 
that bluff, an' that gave Bill an' me an idea. We 
fixed up the place so's people 'ud think Bill 'ad 
faded. Then we humped off down to this bogie 
house so Bill could 'ave some peace an' quiet to 
do 'is thinkin' in. Bill's invent'n some kind o' 
power that'll make ev'rythin' hum w'en 'e gits it 
finished. It'll put all them other kinds o' ma- 

[155] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

chines on the blink. That cussed motor'll go 
'round an' 'round, an' she can't stop ev'ry time 
ye bat yer eye at 'er. 

"I been bringin' things down 'ere fer Bill to 
eat, an' sometimes little beasties come 'round the 
hut wot 'e shoots. We fixed up that dry brush 
so's nobody 'ud come snoopin' 'round without 
Bill knowin' it. Him an' me's goin' to divide 
wot we make out o' th' invention, an' we'll 'ave 
cash money to burn w'en 'e gits it goin'. We'll 
set in a float'n palace out'n the lake an' smoke 
.y^gars, with bands on 'em, an' let the other fellers 
do the fishin', won't we, Bill?" 

"You bet!" responded Saunders. Just then we 
heard a sound of breaking sticks outside. In- 
stantly he seized a long pole that lay along the 
side of the wall. It was fitted with a cross-piece 
and a round top. Over it was draped various 
kinds of thin white fabric. He mounted a box 
and pushed the contrivance up through a hole 
in the flat roof, moved it up and down, waved 
the upper end back and forth a few times, and 
withdrew it. He thumped the empty box heavily 
with the end of the pole as he took it in, and 
picked up about four feet of rusty chain, which 

[156] 



RESURRECTION OF BILL SAUNDERS 

he shook and dragged over the edge of the box 
several times. 

Through a small chink between the logs we 
saw a dim figure moving rapidly away in the 
gloom. We heard the crackling of the brush at 
the edge of the bluff, and knew that the intruder 
had gone. 

"That feller's got the third degree all right," 
remarked Saunders, as he carefully put the ghost 
back into its place. " 'Tain't often anybody comes, 
but w'en they do they gotta be foiled off. Them 
dinnymite signs helps in the daytime, but fer 
night we gotta have sump'n else. 

"This dress'n' on the ghost mast come from 
Elvirey Smetters. We made up with 'er after 
'er wedd 'n with Cal busted up an' Cal skipped. 
She was wearin' most o' this tackle fer the wedd'n, 
an' she said she didn't never want to see it ag'in. 
There's a big thin veil fer the top o' the pole, an' 
some o' the other stuff she said was long-cherry, 
er sump'n like that. We keep that hatch bat- 
tened down w'en it rains, but she's loose most o' 
the time. W'en I shove the ghost out it pushes it 
open." 

Saunders extracted some rye bread, salt pork, 

[157] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

and cheese from a cupboard. We fried the pork 
in a skillet over some embers in the big brick 
fire-place, and toasted the cheese. After our 
simple meal the old man piled more wood on the 
fire, and we smoked and talked until quite late. 

The mechanism, on which Saunders was spend- 
ing his days of seclusion, reposed under some 
tattered canvas near the wall. He was reticent 
concerning it, but Sipes volunteered the informa- 
tion that "they was some little wood'n balls wot 
went up an' down in some tubes that was filled 
with oil, an' then they rolled 'round inside of a 
wheel an' come back." 

"Now you shut up!" commanded Saunders. 
"You leave this thing to me 'til I git it done, an' 
then you c'n talk 'til yer hat's wore out. They 
ain't no use talkin' 'til we git somew'eres, an' then 
we won't 'ave to talk. Wait 'til I git some little 
springs that'll spread out quick an' come back 
slow, an' we'll be through." 

Saunders's mind was struggling with the eternal 
and alluring problem of perpetual motion. He 
was groping blindly for the priceless jewel that 
would revolutionize the world of mechanics. 

It was after midnight when we bade him good- 

[158] 



RESURRECTION OF BILL SAUNDERS 

by, and departed through the moonlit woods for 
the beach. 

We left the old man in the company of his fire, 
and is there greater companionship? It is in our 
fires that we find the realm of reverie. The 
fecund world of fancy reveals its fair fields and 
rose-tinted clouds in the vistas of shimmering 
light. Memory brings forth pages that the years 
have blurred. Fleeting filaments of faces won- 
drous fair, that long ago faded into the mists, smile 
wistfully, in halos of tremulous hues, and vanish. 
Slow-moving figures, crowned with wreaths of 
gray, sometimes linger, turn with looks of tender 
mother love, and dissolve in the curling smoke. 
The years that have slumbered in the old logs 
come forth at the touch of a familiar wand, and 
a soft light illumines chambers that time has 
sealed. The grim realities are lost in the glow of 
our hearth. In the dreamland of the fire we 
may ride noble steeds and soar on tireless pinions. 
We see heroes fight and fall. Cities with gilded 
walls and bright towers, broad landscapes, en- 
thralling beauty, leaves of laurel on triumphant 
brows, majestic pageants, and acclaiming multi- 
tudes, are pictured in the flickering flames. 

[iS9] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

On the little stage under the arch of the fire- 
place the puppets come and go, — the comedies 
and the tragedies, the laughter and the sorrow. 
The dramas of hopes and fears are enacted in shift- 
ing pantomimes that melt away into the gloom. 

Our hearth-stones are the symbols of home. 
We go forth to battle when their sanctity is im- 
perilled. It would be a desolate world without 
our fires. Winding highways lead through them 
on which he who travels must mark the light and 
not the ruin. He must feel the glow and not the 
burning, and be far beyond the ashes when they 
come. 

In the twilight, when our lives become gray, 
and only the embers lie before us, we can still 
dream, if our souls are strong. If we have learned 
to live with the ideals we have created, instead of 
charred hopes, golden visions may linger in the 
mellow light. Happy hours, as transient as the 
fitful flames, may dance again, and shine among 
the smouldering coals. 

The grizzled old sailor, who had been fortune's 
toy, and had been cast aside, may have found his 
solace in the visions before his fire. The pictures 
in it may have been of millions of wheels turned 

[160] 



RESURRECTION OF BILL SAUNDERS 

with the new force, myriads of aeroplanes soaring 
through the skies, dynamos of inexhaustible power 
giving heat and light, and countless looms spin- 
ning the fabrics of the world. 

He may have seen himself worshipped, not for 
his achievement, but for his wealth, in the domain 
of Vulgaria, where Avarice is king — where worth 
is measured by dollars — where utter selfishness 
rules, and the cave man still dwells, veneered with 
a gilded tinsel of what, in his foolish pride, he 
thinks is civilization — where vanity parades in 
the guise of charity — where cruelty and greed 
hide under fine raiment — where human hyenas 
rend the weak and grovel before the strong — 
where the bestiality of the Hun darkens the 
world — where the only god is Gold, and where 
the idealist must fight or perish. 

One night during the following spring I passed 
the cabin. The little structure, from which a 
great light might have radiated over the scientific 
world, was deserted. A pale, ghostly gleam was 
visible through the empty window frame. It 
might have been a phosphorescent glow from one 
of the decaying wall-logs, or a faint spark from the 
dream-fire that ever burns in the hearts of men. 

[161] 



IX 
THE WINDING RIVER'S TREASURE 




XK j&c>"**> 5«*K*°l" 



IX 
THE WINDING RIVER'S TREASURE 

THERE was much bustle and preparation 
around the fish shanty one August morn- 
ing. Hoarded on a shelf of the bluff were 
a lot of water-worn boards, which had drifted in 
along the beach at various times, or been thrown 
up by the storms, and gradually gathered. 

The old shipmates had selected suitable pieces 
from the pile, and were busily engaged, with ham- 
mer and saw, in building a cabin on the big boat. 
It was a cumbrous and unwieldy craft, about 
twenty feet long, with high sides and a broad 
beam. For years it had been used in the work of 
installing the pound- and gill-nets in the lake, and 
for the necessary visits to them when the surf 
was too high for the small row-boat, which was 
kept for ordinary use. 

The long oars, with which Sipes and Saunders 
had so often fought the big waves, were not ex- 
actly mated, but when the detachable motor on 
the wide stern failed to run, navigation was still 

[165] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

possible. A bowsprit had been added to the boat, 
and a mast protruded through the partially com- 
pleted cabin. Many rusty nails and odd pieces 
entered into the building of the superstructure. 
A large square of soiled canvas and some miscel- 
laneous cordage lay scattered about on the sand. 
Some scrawled lettering in red paint across the 
stern indicated that the boat was henceforth to 
be the Crawfish. 

"WeY goin' on a v'yage," explained Sipes. 
"WeY goin' 'way off up the lake, an' we'll touch 
at diff'nt ports fer some stores we gotta have, an' 
then we'r' comin' back, an' weY goin' to a cert'n 
river you know 'bout, an' weY goin' up it. If 
you want to make pitchers, you c'n come 'long. 
We'll stop an' take you aboard w'en we come by 
with the stuff we gotta git." 

I had learned from experience that Sipes 
usually became reticent when questioned too 
closely. It was better to let him volunteer what- 
ever he wanted to say about his own affairs. I 
was careful not to evince any curiosity as to the 
object of the river trip, and gladly accepted the 
invitation, as I had intended visiting the river 

during the fall. 

[i66] 



THE WINDING RIVER'S TREASURE 

The shanty was stripped of most of its small 
movable contents, which were put on board when 
the additions were completed. The nets were 
taken into the house and piled up. The small 
boat was laid on top of them along the wall, and 
the door fastened with a rusty padlock. 

Sipes remarked, as he put the key in his pocket, 
that "they was always some bulgarious feller 
rubber 'n round fer sump 'n light an' easy, that 
'ud clean out that shanty if it wasn't batt'n'd up 
an' locked." 

The reincarnated craft was floated, and it 
sailed slowly away, with the doughty mariners 
giving boisterous orders to each other. 

A week later I heard a loud halloo, and cries 
of "Wot Oh!" down on the beach opposite to my 
camp in the dunes. I looked over the edge of 
the bluff and saw the Crawfish riding proudly on 
the low swells. The broad sail flapped idly in the 
breeze, and Saunders was ensconced on top of the 
cabin, smoking his pipe. Sipes had waded ashore 
and was waiting to help get my belongings on board. 

A small tent, a supply of canned goods, sketch- 
ing materials, a camera, and other items were 
carefully stowed. My row-boat was connected 

[167] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

with a line, and we were ready to start. We had 
only about fifteen miles to go, and expected to 
reach the mouth of the river about noon. 

The cabin was characteristic of its builders. It 
was intended for use and not as an ornament. 
Ordinarily two could sleep in it comfortably, but 
the present cargo taxed its capacity. There was 
little ventilation when the door was closed. What 
fresh air there was entered through a pair of 
auger holes, which had evidently been bored for 
observation purposes. I suggested that the air 
inside would be better if the holes were larger, 
or if there were more of them, but Sipes claimed 
that they were large enough. 

"Air c 'n come in now faster'n you c'n breath 
it. Jest notice how much bigger them holes is 
than them in yer nose." Such logic was uncom- 
batable and the subject was changed. 

The motor worked spasmodically and we sailed 
most of the way. The breeze died down when we 
were about half a mile from where the Winding 
River came out of the dunes. After much crank- 
ing the motor started, but would only run back- 
wards. We turned the stern toward the river's 
mouth and made fair progress. 

[168] 



THE WINDING RIVER'S TREASURE 

"That's w'y we named 'er the Crawfish" ex- 
plained Sipes. "We know'd we'd 'ave to do a 
lot o' that kind o' navigat'n'." 

We ran on to a small sand-bar, which delayed 
us for some time, but got off with the oars. After 
a hard row against the current, we entered the 
mouth of the river, which was not over fifty yards 
wide. We heard the sound of music from among 
the decayed ruins of a pier that extended into the 
lake. Seated on some chunks of broken limestone, 
between the rotting piles, we saw a gray-haired 
colored man of about sixty. He was playing 
"Money Musk" on a mouth organ. Near him 
a cane fish-pole was stuck in among the rocks, 
and extended out over the water. He was whil- 
ing away the time between bites with his music. 

"I bet that feller ain't no nigro," remarked 
Sipes. "He looks like a white man wot's been 
smoked." 

The solitary fisherman regarded us with an 
expectant look, as we tied up to one of the piles. 

"Good mawnin', gen'lemen! Does you-all 
happ'n to have sump'n to drink in yo' boat?" 

"We ain't got nothin' wet but wot's leaked in. 
You c'n 'ave some o' that if you want it," Sipes 

[169] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

replied with some asperity. "Wot's the matter 
with the lake if youY thirsty?" 

"Ah beg yo' pa'don, but you-all looked like 
gen'lemen that might have sump'n with you. 
This ain't thirst. Ah got a misery, an' it 'curred 
to me you might like to save ma life. Ah ain't 
had no breakfus', an Ah feels weak." 

"Listen at that smoke," said Sipes, in an under- 
tone. " Wonder if 'e thinks we V a float'n' s'loon ? " 

Evidently discouraged over his prospects with 
Sipes, the old darky turned to me. 

"Say, Boss, will you gimme a qua'tah, so Ah 
c'n go an' git some breakfus'?" 

We thought it better to give him some "break- 
fus' " from the boat, and, as it was lunch time, we 
passed part of our eatables over to him. 

"Ah nevah had the pleas'ah of meet'n you 
gen'lemen befo'. Ma name's Na'cissus Jackson, 
an' Ah'm up heah f'om the south. Ah ce't'nly 
am 'bliged to you fo' this li'l breakfus'. " 

We talked with Narcissus for some time. Evi- 
dently he was a victim of strong drink. He had 
drifted into prohibition territory, the extent of 
which he did not know, and out of which he had 
no financial means of escape. 

[170] 



THE WINDING RIVER'S TREASURE 

"Ah'm on a dry island, Boss, an' Ah don't 
know how Ah'm goin' to git off it. Ah was cook 
at the place wheah Ah wo'ked, an' Ah got fiahed 
just 'cause Ah didn't show up one mawnin'. They 
was goin' to have me 'rested fo' sump'n Ah didn't 
have nuff'n to do with, an' Ah come heah fo' a 
li'l vacation." 

Sipes suggested that we ought to have a pilot 
to take us up the river, on account of its many 
sand-bars, that must have shifted since he was 
on it after ducks years ago. 

"We oughta have somebody sett'n on top o' 
the cab'n to yell out, an' keep us from butt'n into 
sump'n w'en we'r' tear'n up stream. This ain't 
no canoe, an' we got import'nt business an' we 
don't want to git stuck," declared the old man. 

"Theah's a man ovah in the village named 
Cap'n Peppehs, that knows all about this rivah," 
replied Narcissus. "S'pos'n you-all gimme a 
qua'tah, an' Ah'll go up an' git Cap'n Peppehs 
fo' you." 

I agreed to furnish the coveted coin if "Cap'n 
Peppehs" was produced, and our new-found friend 
took in his pole, climbed out over the rough stone 
filling, and departed for the village, which was 

[171] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

only a short distance off. He soon reappeared, 
accompanied by a pompous, deep-voiced old man, 
with a red nose and scraggly whiskers, who looked 
us over with curiosity. 

"My name's Peppers. What can I do for you?" 
he asked in a friendly tone. 

"WeV goin' up the river an' we don't want to 
git messed up on no sand-bars," replied Saunders. 
"If you been navigat'n' these waters, we'd like to 
git you to go 'long 'til we git where we want to go." 

"If you'll drop me off back o' the third bend, 
I'll git aboard," said the old man. "You won't 
need no pilot after that. You c'n go on up an' 
not hit anythin' but float'n snags beyond that fer 
three miles in that craft." 

He got into the boat. I handed Narcissus his 
"qua'tah," and he picked his way back over the 
rocks to his fish-pole, where, like his fabled name- 
sake, he may have found solace in the contem- 
plation of his image in the placid water. 

"Cap'n Peppehs" examined the motor with 
interest. "Are you goin' to run 'er up with 
that?" he asked. 

"Yes, if she'll go," replied Saunders, "but I 
bet she won't. A friend of ours that peddles 

[172] 



THE WINDING RIVER'S TREASURE 

fish got it some'r's 'round 'ere, an' turned it over 
to us. If we ever cetch the feller that shifted that 
cussed thing onto John, we'r' goin' to kill 'im. 
We got a gun in the cab'n wot's wait'n' fer 'im." 

"I know sump'n 'bout them things," said the 
Captain, "an' mebbe I c'n start 'er." He fussed 
over the machine for some time, and finally got it 
going. With the help of the oars we made fair 
progress against the slow current. 

"You c'n go on up now an' camp in that bunch 
o' timber beyond the marsh, an' you'll be all 
right," said the old man, when we reached the 
point where he was to leave us. "You'll find a 
mighty fine spring up there." 

We thanked him warmly for his services. Sipes 
proffered the hospitality of a two-gallon jug, 
which he extracted from the pile of stuff in the 
cabin. It was eagerly accepted. He wished us 
good luck, and disappeared. 

"That'll make 'is nose bloom some more," re- 
marked Sipes. "He's a nice ol' feller, but wot's 
springs to him? It wasn't no green peppers 'e 
was named after." 

The river made many turns in its sinuous course 
through the marsh, and it was nearly dark when 

[173] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

we reached a hard bank at the edge of the 
woods. 

The Crawfish was made fast to a venerable elm, 
and we went ashore. 

"I'll put a couple o' extra hitches on 'er so she 
can't back off in the night, if the gas bug takes a 
notion to git busy," said Saunders, as he took 
another line ashore from the stern. 

It was warm and pleasant, and we decided that 
no shelter would be necessary that night. We 
built a small fire against the side of a log, fried some 
bacon in a skillet, made coffee, and fared well, if 
not sumptuously, with supplies from the boat. 

We sat around and talked until quite late. 
The object of the expedition was revealed by 
Saunders. 

"They was a feller that come to the bogie-house 
one night w'en they was a big storm that 'ad 
come up sudd'n. He'd come from the lake, an' 
it was blowin' so hard that it 'ud take hair off a 
frog. He'd started on a long trip with a little 
boat. He had one o' them cussed motors like wot 
we got, an' it went punk, an' 'e had an awful time 
git'n' in alive. He seen my light an' come up. I 
didn't 'ear 'im til 'e knocked, so I didn't 'ave no 

[174] 



THE WINDING RIVER'S TREASURE 

chance to spring the ghost on 'im. Wen I seen 
the mess 'e was in, I took 'im in an' fed 'im an' 
dried 'im out 'fore the fire. 

"He seemed to be a scientific feller, an' 'e told 
me a lot about the rivers all over the country. 
He said that durin' the fall 'is business was to go 
'round an' buy pearls wot fishers got out o' them 
fresh-water clams that's all over the bottoms o' 
the rivers. He'd pay 'em good prices. He said 
the pearls 'ad thin layers on 'em, like onions, an' 
sometimes one would look like it was no good. 
Then 'e'd take a steel thing an' peel off the out- 
side skin, an' sometimes 'e'd git one that way 
that was wuth five hundred dollars. Then 'e 
said they was button companies that 'ud buy all 
the shells o' the clams, so they was a lot o' money 
in it, even if they wasn't no pearls found. He 
had a little pearl in 'is pocket that 'e'd peeled. 
It wasn't a very good one — prob'ly wuth three 
er four dollars. He gave it to me fer bein' good 
to 'im, an' 'ere it is." 

The old sailor carefully unrolled a small piece 
of paper, which he took out of his tobacco pouch, 
and produced the pearl. 

"This feller gimme a little book that didn't 
[i7S] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

'ave no cover on, that's sent out by the gov'ment, 
an' it tells all about clam fish'n', an' how to make 
drag-hooks, an' how to rig 'em, an' drag 'em, an' 
all about it." 

He brought out the interesting pamphlet, with 
the address of the giver written in pencil on one 
of the margins. 

"The next mornin' I helped the feller put wot 
was left o' his boat an' motor up in the bogie- 
house, an' 'e went off through the woods. He 
said 'e'd come back some day an' git 'em. 

"Invent'n's no good. We gotta git sump'n we 
c'n git a big bunch o' money out of. Fish'n's 
git'n' to be too hard work fer us. They's slews o' 
wealth in this water, an' we'r' goin' to git it out an' 
we won't 'ave to work no more. We didn't say 
nothin' to nobody. John come 'round an' we told 
'im, but 'e's all right. This whole thing's a dark 
secret. It's all right fer you to know, but we 
gotta keep still, er the place'll be full o' flatboats 
an' the pearls'll be gone. Sipes an' me's seen 
where the mushrats 'as been pilin' the shells 
'round them little places where they got holes in 
the banks, an' out'n the marsh where their houses 
are, w'en we was down 'ere duck-shoot'n'. If 

[i 7 6] 



THE WINDING RIVER'S TREASURE 

them little beasties c'n git 'em, we c'n mop out 
the whole river with all that tackle that the book 
tells about." 

"The fust thing we gotta do, after we git a 
flatboat built, is to git some heavy wire fer them 
clam drags," said Sipes. "We c'n go back to the 
railroad an' git some out between them telegraph 
poles. The wire don't cost them fellers nothin', 
an' it's better we should 'ave it. Tomorrer we'll 
rig up a reg'lar camp, an' then we'll go to work 
on all the things we gotta git ready so we c'n 
begin devastat'n them clamsies." 

The old man then went over to the boat for 
the jug. He set it down and began working the 
cork out with his knife. 

"I don't do much drink'n, but me an' Bill's 
git'n' old, an' we'r' in a my-larious country, an' 
we gotta have grog once an' aw'ile." 

Just as the cork came out, we heard a rustle of 
dead leaves on the ground back of us. 

"Good evenin', gen'lemen!" greeted Narcissus 
Jackson, as he appeared out of the darkness, and 
walked deferentially up to the fire. " Fine evenin', 
ain't it?" 

"You bet it's a fine evenin'!" exclaimed Sipes, 
[i77] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

with freezing ■ politeness. "How fur off did you 
smell this jug from?" 

"Ah just thought Ah'd drop 'round an' see how 
you gen'lemen was get'n' 'long. Ah come up in 
a li'l boat I got offen Cap'n Peppehs. Ah saw 
yo' fiah, an' Ah just come to pay ma respec's. 
Is you-all well an' puffec'ly comfo'ble up heah? 
How's you feel'n', Mr. Sipes? Seem's like you 
had a li'l cold this mawnin'." 

"I'm better, but 'Ah feels weak,'" quoted 
Sipes, with biting sarcasm. 

"Ah ce't'nly am glad to heah yo' voice again," 
continued Narcissus. "It's a long tia'some row up 
heah, an Ah ce't'nly am glad to find you gen'lemen 
all sit'n' so comfo'ble 'round yo' li'l fiah." 

The veiled appeal was irresistible. Sipes handed 
over the jug and cup, after he and Saunders had 
been "refreshed," and he had pitied my teetotal- 
ism with a patronizing glance. 

"That's a nice li'l tin cup, an' that's an awful 
pretty shaped jug," observed our unexpected visi- 
tor, as he affectionately watched the red liquid 
trickle out. "Pa'don me, but Ah always closes 
ma eyes when Ah take ma li'l drink, 'cause if 
Ah don't, ma mouth watahs so it weak'ns ma 

[178] 



THE WINDING RIVER'S TREASURE 

whiskey." The contents of the cup instantly 
vanished. 

We were about ready to make our arrangements 
for the night when Narcissus appeared. Fortu- 
nately my own supplies included a lot of mosquito 
netting. I got it out and he promptly offered to 
help. He deftly improvised an effective covering 
with the netting and some sticks that excited the 
admiration of all of us. 

"If you'd git toughed up, an' raise a face o' 
whiskers, them skeets wouldn't chase after you," 
observed Sipes. 

Narcissus sat on a log and did not seem in- 
clined to go away. 

"Say, Boss, will you lemme have a qua'tah 
to get ma breakfus' with in the mawnin'?" he 
asked humbly. 

The request was cheerfully complied with. I 
really liked Narcissus. His interesting face, 
winning personality, and happy-go-lucky ways 
appealed to my sense of the picturesque. It oc- 
curred to me that if the jug could be eliminated 
from the situation, he would be a valuable addi- 
tion to the camp. I invited him to stay all night 
and have breakfast with us in the morning. 

[179] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

When Sipes heard the invitation accepted, he 
went down to the boat to satisfy himself that 
Saunders had locked the door when he had re- 
turned the jug to the cabin. 

In the morning Narcissus volunteered to pre- 
pare our simple breakfast. He did it with such 
skill that we realized that our own cooking was 
crude and amateurish. 

During the forenoon I had a long talk with him. 
He was stranded and would like to stay with us 
if we were willing. For a moderate stipend he 
agreed to do the cooking and make himself gen- 
erally useful. 

I did not wish to intrude too much on the old 
shipmates, and, as I wanted to be alone much of 
the time, and do some sketching along the river, 
I established my camp about a hundred yards 
further up on the same side of the stream. This 
I judged to be near enough for sociability, and 
far enough for privacy. Narcissus helped erect 
my tent, and made many ingenious arrangements 
for my work and comfort. 

The old sailors became so enthusiastic over his 
cooking that they were glad to have him down 
with them most of the time. The sail had been 

[180] 



THE WINDING RIVER'S TREASURE 

taken off the boat, and a "lean-to" tent rigged 
between two trees, where they all slept. 

"You jest watch that cookie coin pancakes!" 
exclaimed Sipes. "He jest whisks up the dope 
in the pan, an' gives 'em a couple o' flops, an' 
they all come to pieces in yer mouth 'fore ye 
begin chewin'." 

He seemed to anticipate all our wants. He had 
evidently overheard what Sipes had said about 
telegraph wire, and the second morning after- 
ward there was about a hundred feet of it in 
camp, with a pair of heavy wire-nippers, and 
other tools used by repair men on the lines, which 
he said he had found. The next night he came in 
with a half-grown turkey, which he claimed he 
had found dead in a fence, where it had caught 
its neck on the barbed wire. The unfortunate 
bird was roasted to a beautiful brown, and I 
noticed that the feathers were carefully burned. 

The aspecl: of affairs was getting serious. I 
took Narcissus in hand and subjected him to a 
thorough cross-examination. I told him that we 
wanted to pay for anything we used, and that he 
positively must not find any more young turkeys 
in wire fences. The telegraph wire incident was 

[181] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

perplexing. He declared that this stuff had been 
abandoned, and was far from the railroad. The 
fad: that the tools and wire were somewhat rusty 
seemed to lend some slight color of truth to his 
statement, but we finally understood each other 
as to the rule to be followed in the future. 

A cash allowance was made for the fresh vege- 
tables, eggs, fruit, and other supplies, which he 
was instructed to buy around in the back coun- 
try and along the river. I hoped later to discover 
the owner of the ill-fated turkey. 

The old shipmates worked industriously. They 
took the Crawfish down the river to the village 
twice, and returned with cargos of second-hand 
lumber, with which they constructed a flatboat 
about ten feet long by six wide. Supports were 
put at the four corners, and railings nailed to the 
tops. They rigged a strong pole, the length of 
the platform, along which they attached four-foot 
wires eight inches apart. At the ends of these 
were the four-pronged clam-hooks. Lines ran 
from the ends of the pole to a centre rope, by 
means of which the device was attached to the 
flatboat and dragged in the river. When the 
hooks came in contact with the unsuspecting mol- 

[182] 



THE WINDING RIVER'S TREASURE 

lusks, lying open on the bottom, they were to 
close their shells on them tightly, and thus their 
fate would be sealed. When the pole was pulled 
out sideways, with the big rope, the bivalves 
would hang on its fringe of dangling wires, like 
grapes on pendant vines. 

Our "cookie" was assiduous in his camp duties. 
He procured some flat stones, which he skilfully 
piled so as to confine his fire. Heavy stakes were 
driven into the ground, and another laid across, 
with its ends in the forked tops. The cross-piece 
supported the iron kettle, with which he per- 
formed mysterious feats of cookery. He im- 
provised a broiler with some of the telegraph 
wire, and baked delicious bread and biscuits in 
a reflecting oven, made of a piece of old sheet- 
iron. He was very resourceful. From somewhere 
beyond the confines of the dark forest he obtained 
materials for menus that exceeded our fondest 

hopes. 

He spent a great deal of time off by himself, 
and would often drop around where I happened 
to be sketching. We had many confidential talks. 
He confessed that drink was his besetting sin. 
He had generally been able to get good jobs, but 

[183] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

invariably lost them when he drank. Some day 
he was "goin' to sweah off fo' good." The poor 
fellow was floating wreckage on that poison stream 
of alcohol that our false conception of economics 
permits to exist. It was battering another dere- 
lict along the rocks that line its sinister shores. 

He had attached himself to us like a stray dog. 
His moral sense had been blunted by his infirmity, 
but, under proper influences, his reclamation was 
possible. Narcissus was a strong argument in 
favor of compulsory prohibition, for he was be- 
yond his own help. 

The old shipmates agreed with me that he 
ought to be kept away from temptation as much 
as possible, "spesh'ly," said Sipes, "as we ain't 
got none too much in the jug. It ain't fit fer no- 
body that's under sixty-seven. Young fellers 
oughta let that stuff alone. They git filled up 
with it an' it runs down in their legs an' floats 
their feet off." 

Narcissus's ancestry was mixed. He had some 
white blood, and one of his grandfathers was an 
Indian. Though the African characteristics pre- 
dominated, there were traces of both the white 
man and the Indian in his face. It may have 

[184] 



THE WINDING RIVER'S TREASURE 

been a remnant of Indian instinct — a mysteri- 
ous call of the blood — that lured him to the 
dune country, where the red men were once 
happy, when he got into trouble. Possibly it 
was the sixth sense of the Indian that led him 
up the river to the jug, on the night of our arrival, 
or, as Sipes remarked, "mebbe the perfumery got 
out through the cork an' drifted over 'im w'en 'e 
was roostin' on them rocks." 

He cooked some carp, which he had caught in 
the river, and was much disappointed when we 
found them unpalatable. The following evening 
he compounded a delicious sauce, with which he 
camouflaged the despised fish almost beyond rec- 
ognition, but their identity was unmistakable. 
Sipes declared that "the dope on them carps is 
fine, but I don't like wot it's mixed with." He 
ate the sauce and threw his piece of fish out among 
the trees. The next morning he saw a crow drop 
down and eat it. 

"That ol' bird's been through enough to know 
better'n that," he remarked. 

The fish that came to us from the land of the 
Hun, and now infests our inland waters, has 
little to commend it. It is objectionable wherever 

[185] ' 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

it exists. It breeds immoderately, eats the spawn 
of respectable fish, and begrimes the pure waters 
with its hog-like rooting along the weedy bottoms. 
It is of inferior food value and pernicious. No 
means of exterminating these noxious aliens have 
been discovered. Like the Huns, they have all 
of the instincts of marauding swine, without their 
redeeming qualities. 

"These heah cahp ah funny fish," said Narcis- 
sus. "A gen'leman tol' me a few yeahs ago of a 
cahp that was caught in the Mississippi rivah 
that was ve'y la'ge. They opened 'im an' found 
a gold watch an' chain that 'e'd swallowed, an' 
the watch was tickin' when they took it out, an' 
theah was a cha'm on the chain, an' inside the 
cha'm was a li'l picYah of a young lady. The 
young man that caught the cahp found that 
young lady an' theah was a wedd'n. Of co'se 
Ah didn't see the watch, er the young man, but 
that was the tale Ah hea'd. Theah's been some 
awful wonde'ful things happened down on that 
Mississippi rivah." 

"Gosh! if them Dutch fish 'ave got timepieces in 
'em, mebbe we better pursue 'em instid o' clams," 
remarked Sipes. "Them carps c'n live on land 

[.186] 



THE WINDING RIVER'S TREASURE 

pretty near as well as they do in water. They'r' 
like mudturkles. Bill an' me seen a big one once't, 
that was in a little puddle on some land that 'ad 
been flowed over. We thought prob'ly the water'd 
gone down an' left 'im stranded. His back stuck 
out o' the puddle an' was all dry an' caked with 
mud. Mebbe he'd been out devastat'n' the coun- 
try fer watches an' jools, er sump'n, in the night, 
an' 'ad jest stopped at that hole fer a little rest 
on 'is way back." 

We spent many interesting evenings around the 
old shipmates' camp fire. Sipes and Saunders 
related marvellous tales of the sea. Narcissus 
told many ornate yarns that he had picked up 
during his checkered life, and sang negro revival 
songs and plantation melodies. The bleached 
skeleton of some animal in the woods had pro- 
vided him with material for two pairs of "bones," 
with which he was an adept. His mouth organ 
was a source of much entertainment. Sipes's 
favorite was "Money Musk," the merry jingle 
that came over the water when we entered the 
river, and he often asked Narcissus to "play that 
cash-money tune some more." 

When the clam-boat was completed, and fully 

[187] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

rigged with its paraphernalia, it was pushed out 
into the slow current. It was controlled with the 
oars from the Crawfish. The pole, with its pend- 
ant wires, was dropped over the side, and actual 
operations began. A bench had been erected in 
the middle of the rude craft, before which Sipes 
stood, flourishing a stubby knife, ready to open 
the mollusks and remove their precious contents. 
He had a small red tin tobacco box, with a hinged 
cover, which he intended to fill with pearls the 
first day. 

"Let's pull 'er up now," he suggested, after the 
flatboat had drifted about a hundred feet down- 
stream. Saunders lifted in the tackle. Two vic- 
tims dangled on the wires. 

"Gosh, this is easy! Gimme them clams!" 
They were eagerly opened, but careful scrutiny 
revealed no pearls. "I guess them damn Dutch 
fish 'ave got 'em, like they did that watch Cookie 
told about. Heave 'er over an' we'll try 'er ag'in, 
Bill." 

The first day's work was fruitless, as were many 
that followed. The clam-hooks frequently got 
snagged, and seemed to bring up everything but 
pearls. Once an angry snapping-turtle was 

[188] 



THE WINDING RIVER'S TREASURE 

thrown back. An enormous catfish, whose medi- 
tations on the bottom had been violently dis- 
turbed, was pulled to the surface, but escaped. 

"Mebbe we'll cetch a billy-goat if this keeps 
up," remarked Sipes. 

The old men toiled on with dogged persistence. 
One Sunday morning an aged bivalve was pulled 
up and a pearl, over three-eighths of an inch in 
diameter, fell out on the bench when Sipes's knife 
struck the inside of the shell. 

"Hoo-ray\ ! ! Here she is!" he yelled. 

"Be quiet, y'ol' miser! Gimme that," com- 
manded Saunders. 

He examined it closely and compared it with 
the one the wrecked pearl-buyer had given him. 

"How much d'ye think that onion-skinner'd 
give us fer that?" asked Sipes, anxiously. 

"It's about three times as big, an' it's rounder. 
It oughta be wuth fifteen er twenty dollars," re- 
plied Saunders, as he put it with the other speci- 
men and rolled it up in the soiled paper. 

"Here, Bill, you can't do that! Gimme that 
jool. It's gotta go in the box." Saunders sur- 
rendered the pearl, and Sipes carefully put it 
where it belonged. 

[189] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

"We ain't goin' to fuss with no button com- 
panies, w'en we c'n find them things," declared 
Sipes, as he kicked the pile of empty shells over- 
board. "That ain't no money fer a jool like that. 
Wot are you talk'n' about? You don't know 
nothin' 'bout pearls. I bet it's wuth a thousand 
dollars right now, an' mebbe it'll be wuth two 
thousand if we git that feller to peel it. I bet 
all them jools has to be peeled." 

That part of the pearl-buyer's talk with Saun- 
ders that related to the removal of the layers, 
and the comparison of a pearl's structure with 
that of an onion, had strongly impressed Sipes, 
and he generally referred to him as "the onion- 
skinner." 

During the rest of the day he shook the box 
frequently to assure himself that the pearl was 
still there. 

Various "slugs," pearls of irregular shape and 
of little value, were found during the next week, 
and the increasing spoil was gloated over at 
night. 

Narcissus was sometimes added to the working 
force on the flatboat, which was taken up stream 
as far as the depth permitted, for a fresh start. 

[190] 



THE WINDING RIVER'S TREASURE 

"We'r' goin' to drag this ol' river from stem to 
gudgeon," declared Sipes. "Wen we git through 
the mushrats'll have a tough time hustPn' fer 
food. We'll git back in the marsh where the big 
clams stay in them open places 'mong the splatter- 
docks, where all them lily-flowers grow, an' we'll 
git some jools that it won't do to drop on yer foot. 
I seen a clam in the marsh once't that was over 
eight inches long, an' I bet 'e was a hundred years 
old." 

One night Narcissus tied his little boat to a 
tree near the spring. He left some fresh vege- 
tables in it, which he had procured up the river. 
In the morning it was discovered that the boat 
had been visited. The unknown caller had eaten 
most of the supplies. Fragments were scattered 
about, but no tracks were visible. A pile of green 
corn and some melons met the same fate a few 
nights afterward, and Sipes decided to ambush 
the visitor. 

He lay on his stomach in the dark, with his 
gun beside him, and waited. About midnight he 
heard splashing in the shallow water along the 
bank, and, a moment later, the dim light revealed 
a spotted cow helping herself liberally to the con- 

[191] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

tents of the boat. Evidently she had forded the 
river somewhere up stream, and had accidentally- 
found a welcome base of supplies. 

"Come 'ere, Spotty!" Sipes called softly, as 
he cautiously advanced. The friendly marauder 
did not seem at all alarmed, and submitted peace- 
fully to the coil of anchor rope that was taken 
from the bottom of the boat and gently slipped 
over her horns. She was led out of the water 
and tied to a tree. Sipes procured a tin pail at 
the camp, and "Spotty" yielded of her abundance. 

There was cream for our coffee the next day. 
Spotty was nowhere visible. The old man had 
conducted her into the woods and "anchored 'er," 
with a stake and a long rope, in a hidden glade, 
where there was plenty of grass. 

The following evening we were enjoying our 
pipes, while Narcissus was cleaning up after a 
delicious dinner. An old man with a heavy hick- 
ory cane hobbled into camp. His unkempt white 
beard nearly reached his waist. His shoulders 
were bent with age. He appeared to be over 
eighty. 

"Hello, Ancient!" was Sipes's cheery greeting, 
as the patriarch came up to the fire. 

[192] 



THE WINDING RIVER'S TREASURE 

"Good evenin'!" responded the visitor. 
"How's the clam fish'n'?" 

"Jest so-so," replied Saunders. "Have a seat." 

He gave the old man a box, with an improvised 
back, to sit on, and, after a few remarks about 
the weather, our caller explained that he had lost 
a cow, and wondered if we had seen anything of 
her. 

"Wot kind of a look'n' anamile was she?" in- 
quired Sipes. 

"Gray, with a lot o' black spots on 'er. One 
horn bent out forrads, an' the other was twisted 
back, an' she had a short tail. She's been roamin* 
in the woods a good deal lately, an' last night she 
didn't come home. I thought I'd come down this 
way an' see if I could locate 'er." 

"I seen a cow like that yisterd'y," replied the 
culprit. "She was over on the other side o' the 
river, an' come down to drink. She prob'ly 
mosies 'round nights like that 'cause she's rest- 
luss. Her tail's bobbed an' she can't switch away 
the skeets. She'll prob'ly show up all right." 

"Yes, I s'pose she will. Guess I won't worry 
about 'er." The visitor's eyes wandered about 
the camp. I had noticed a small brown turkey 

[i93] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

feather on the ground, near where Sipes sat, but 
that wily strategist had deftly slipped it into his 
side pocket. 

Evidently the industry on the river had been 
duly observed by the scattered dwellers in the 
back country, for our caller seemed to know all 
about us. He understood that I was "drawin' 
scenes 'round 'ere." Possibly some unknown ob- 
server had, at some time, come near enough to 
see what I was doing, and noislessly retreated. 

Sipes went down to the cabin of the Crawfish, 
and returned with the jug. "Wouldn't ye like 
to 'ave a little sump'n, after yer long walk?" he 
asked. 

"B'lieve I would!" 

"Say w'en," said Sipes, as he tilted the jug 
over the cup. 

"Jest a leet\t, not more'n a thimbleful!" 

"Some thimbles is bigger'n others," observed 
the old sailor, as he half filled the cup. 

While protesting against the liberal offering, 
the old man disposed of the "little sump'n" with 
much relish. 

Narcissus watched the proceedings from behind 
his kitchen bench with appealing eyes. 

[194] 



THE WINDING RIVER'S TREASURE 

"How long you been liv'n' 'round 'ere, An- 
cient?" asked Sipes. 

"I come here in the fall o' forty-eight. It was 
all open water whar that slough is then. It's 
weeded up sence. We used to chase deer out all 
over the ice thar in the winter. They'd slip down 
an' couldn't git up, an' we got slews of 'em that 
way. In the fall we'd find 'em on the beach 'long 
the big lake. We'd shoo 'em out in the water, an' 
then stay 'long the shore an' yell at 'em an' keep 
'em from comin' in. They'd swim 'round fer a 
couple of hours, an' they'd git so tired the waves 
'ud wash 'em in, an' we'd cetch 'em. We'd lay 
up enough meat to last all winter. 

"We had to save amminition, fer we had to go 
twenty miles to the trading post fer wot we used. 
The Injuns was thicker'n hair on a dog 'round 'ere 
then. Many's the time, in the summer, I've 
looked down the marsh an' seen 'em set'n' on the 
mushrat houses suckin' wild duck eggs wot they'd 
found 'round in the slough." 

"I bet them was big pearls wot they was mun- 
chin' on," observed Sipes. 

Not noticing the interruption the Ancient con- 
tinued. 

[195] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

"They was so many wild ducks an' geese 'round 
'ere in the fall, that you didn't 'ave to shoot 'em 
at all. You c'd go down on that sand-spit whar 
the river runs out o' the marsh, jest 'fore daylight, 
w'en they was comin' out, an' knock 'em down 
with a stick. They'd fly so low, an' they was so 
thick you couldn't miss 'em, an' you c'd git all 
you c'd carry." 

"Gosh! Let's give 'im another drink!" whis- 
pered Sipes. 

"Them days is all gone. Sometimes you see 
ducks hereabouts, but the sky's never black with 
'em like it used to be. Thar was millions o' wild 
pigeons 'ere too. They'd set on the dead trees so 
thick that the branches busted off, an' thar was 
eagles 'ere that used to fly off with the young 
pigs, an' I've killed rattlesnakes over in the hills 
as thick as yer arm, an' eight feet long, but they've 
been gone fer years. 

"Thar was tall pine all through this country 
then, but it's been cut out. Pretty near ev'ry 
mile 'long the big lake thar's old piles stick'n' up. 
Them was piers that the logs was hauled to with 
oxen an' bob-sleds. The logs was loaded from 
the piers onto schooners that carried 'em off on 

[196] 



THE WINDING RIVER'S TREASURE 

the lake. I used to work at the loggin' in the 
winter. 

"Ev'ry now an* then we'd git a b'ar, an' we 
used to find lots o' wild honey. The wolves used 
to chase us w'en they was in packs, but w'en one 
was alone 'e'd always run. Thar's been some 
awful big fires through 'ere. Once it was all burnt 
over fer fifty miles." 

"That ol' mossback knows a lot, don't 'e?" 
whispered Sipes to me, as the narrator paused 
to light his pipe. 

"Them pearls you fellers er fish'n' fer reminds 
me of a story. Thar was a lot o' Injuns lived 'ere 
at this end o' the marsh long about sixty-three. 
Thar was an' oP medicine-man that 'ad gathered 
about a peck o' them things, big an' little, an' 
kep' 'em in a skin bag. Thar was a bad Injun 
'ere named Tom Skunk, an' 'e stole ev'rything 
'e c'd lay 'is hands on. He didn't know the bag 
had much value, but 'e carried it off one day 
w'en the old man was gone. The Injuns got so 
mad 'bout all the meat an' skins this feller kep' 
takin' that they fixed it up to drill 'im out o' 
the country. They caught 'im an' made 'im give 
the oF Injun back 'is bag. Then they told 'im 

[197] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

to vamoose. He stuck 'round fer a few days, 
an' one night 'e paddled down the river in 'is 
canoe. The oP Injun was pretty mad. He peeked 
out of 'is wigwam an' seen 'im comin'. He got 
'is ol' smooth-bore rifle out an' rammed a handful 
o' them little pearls on top o' the powder. [Groan 
from Sipes.] Wen Tom Skunk come by 'e let 
loose an' filled 'im full of 'em. Tom got away 
somehow, an' that was the last seen of 'im in these 
parts. We heard afterward that 'e went to a 
govament post, an' the surgeon spent a week 
pick'n' out the pearls an' sold 'em fer a big price. 

"We used to have snapp'n' turtles in this river 
that was two feet across, an' they'd come out in 
the night after the hens. We cut the head off o' 
one once, an' 'e lived a week after that. He had 
a date, seventeen hundred and sump'n, on 'is 
back. He was all caked up with moss an' crusted 
shell, so we couldn't quite make out the year. 
Somebody must 'a' burnt it on with a hot iron. 

"All the ol' settlers in these parts are dead now, 
'ceptin' me, an' I'm git'n' pretty feeble, an' don't 
git 'round like I used to. I'm eighty-four an', 
damn 'em, I've buried 'em all!" 

He reached for his hickory cane and rose painfully. 
[198] 



THE WINDING RIVER'S TREASURE 

"I guess I gotta be goin' 'long now, fer it's git'n' 
late. If you see anything o' my cow, I wish you'd 
let me know." 

We loaned him a lantern and bade him good- 
night, as he limped away through the woods. 

After the departure of our entertaining visitor, 
we took Sipes to task about the cow. Under 
gentle pressure, he reluctantly agreed to release 
the animal, and left for the glade, where Spotty 
was secreted. I noticed that he took a pail with 

him. 

Spotty visited the camp several times during 
the next week, and the menus were enriched with 
dishes that would have been otherwise impossible. 
I suggested that something ought to be done for 
the Ancient to even things up. 

"All right," said Sipes, "we'll have Cookie take 
'im up a big bunch o' carps, so 'e c'n 'av' some fish. 
Gosh! We gotta have milk." 

By the use of delicate diplomacy and confiden- 
tial explanation, I amicably adjusted the milk 
difficulty with Spotty's owner, and arranged that 
the faithful animal should furnish us with two 
quarts a day. The old settler was very tolerant 
and reasonable, and I had no trouble about the 

[i99] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

matter at all. He often came to see us, and 
brought welcome additions to our food supplies. 

The golden fall days and the cool nights came. 
The pearl hunting and the genial gatherings at 
the camp fire continued. The destruction of the 
unios in the river went on with unabated zeal. 
Many hundreds of them were opened and thrown 
away. Man, the wisest, and yet the most igno- 
rant of living creatures, lays waste the land of 
plenty that prodigal nature has spread before him. 

The tin box was nearly full of specimens, vary- 
ing in size, shape, and color. The attrition which 
Sipes caused by frequently shaking the box 
dulled the lustre on many of the pearls. Saun- 
ders discovered the damage, and afterwards they 
were properly protected. He suggested that we 
get a baby-rattle and a rubber teething ring for 
Sipes, so he would not "have to amoose 'imself 
shakin' the shine offen them pearls." 

The dauntless toilers refused to be driven in 
by unfavorable weather. One morning dawned 
with a cold drizzly rain, but it was the day of 
days on the flatboat. 

"Whoop! Whoop! Holy jumpin' wild-cats!" 
shrieked Sipes, hysterically. 

[200] 



THE WINDING RIVER'S TREASURE 

A resplendent oval form, as large as a filbert, 
iridescent with subtle light and flashing hues of 
rose and green, rolled out of a bivalve which he had 
partially opened. Its satiny sheen gleamed softly 
in the palm of the old man's gnarled and dirty 
hand — a pearl that might glow on the bosom of 
a houri, or mingle in the splendor of a diadem. 

"Avast there, you ol' money-bags! You'll 
founder the ship!" yelled Saunders, as they 
danced with delirious joy in each other's arms. 

Work was suspended for the day. The prize 
was proudly and tenderly carried to camp, with 
great rejoicing. 

"Come 'ere, you Jack o' Clubs, an' see wot a 
million dollars looks like!" shouted Sipes to Nar- 
cissus, who was hurrying to meet them. 

Saunders told me, when we met that night, 
that "Cookie's eyes stuck out like grapes, an' 
you c'd 'a' brushed 'em off with a stick w'en 'e 
seen wot we had." 

Unfortunately the jug was much in evidence. 
Narcissus responded many times to Sipes's in- 
sistent demands for "that cash-money tune." 
The old shipmates danced in the flickering fire- 
light. Vociferous songs awoke the echoes in the 

C 20I ]' 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

surrounding gloom of the damp forest. The big 
pearl was repeatedly examined, and much specu- 
lation was indulged in as to its value, which was 
considered almost fabulous. The hilarity ex- 
tended far into the night, until the revellers fell 
asleep from sheer exhaustion. The jug was left 
on the grass, and Narcissus fondled it between 
drinks, while the magnates slumbered. 

"It's only the rich an' fuzzy that enjoys this 
life," observed Sipes with a prolonged yawn, 
when I came over and woke him in the morning. 
"Think o' them val'able clams wot sleeps out 
there in the bottom o' the river. The little runts 
can't swim 'round, an' they can't chase food. 
They 'ave to take wot's fed 'em by the current. 
They can't smoke 'er talk, an' they can't 'ave 
nothin' but water to drink. They jest lay there 
an' make them little jools fer me an' Bill. That 
big feller'd prob'ly been wait'n' fer us all summer 
to come 'long an' save 'im from them mushrats.' , 

The happy old sailor's remarks suggested the 
thought that most of the great intellectual pearls 
in the world have come from the minds of those 
who have pondered long in silent and secluded 

places. 

[202] 



THE WINDING RIVER'S TREASURE 

"Hi there, Bill, you ol' lobster, wake up. I 
want some breakfast. Where's that cussed 
cookie?" he demanded. 

We found poor Narcissus reclining against a 
tree — a pitiful picture. The jug sat near him. 
The cup, mouth organ, and his tattered cap were 
lying about on the grass. A primitive human 
animal had found satiety in what he craved. 

"Gosh! Look at that id'jut!" exclaimed Sipes, 
as he picked up the jug. "They was two gallons 
in 'ere w'en we started out, an' they was about 
two quarts last night. This soak's spilt it all into 
'im 'cept about a pint, an' we gotta save it fer 
snake-bites." 

"Say, Boss, lemme off!" pleaded the culprit, 
weakly. In his confused brain there was a sense 
of trouble that he could not quite comprehend. 

We got our own breakfast. Narcissus watched 
us helplessly from under his tree. He appeared 
quite sick. 

"That cookie's blue 'round the gills," remarked 
Sipes. "He'd jest as lief 'ave a pestilence come 
now as to see whiskey. His stummick's gone 
punk. His eyes looks like holes burnt in a blan- 
ket, an' 'is head don't fit 'im. He needs a few 

[203] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

kind words, an' I'm goin' to take 'im over a little 
piece o' the dog that bit 'im." 

He filled the cup to the brim and offered it to 
the sufferer. 

"Here, Cookie, cheer up! Here's some nice 
little meddy. You swallow it an' you'll feel fine!" 

Pathos and misery were written on Narcissus's 
doleful face, as he mutely protested against the 
cup being held where he could smell its contents. 
Sipes, with refined cruelty, sprinkled some of the 
liquid on the penitent's coat, so that the odor 
would remain with him, and chuckled, as he re- 
turned the unused portion to the jug, which he 
locked in the boat's cabin. 

One night there was a light frost. When morn- 
ing dawned there was a crispness in the air. A 
spirit of foreboding was in the forest, and a sad- 
ness in the tones of the wind that rustled the 
weakly clinging leaves. The wood odors had 
changed. Dashes of color brilliance were scat- 
tered along the edges of the timber on the river 
banks. The deep green of tamaracks, and flam- 
ing scarlet of vines and dogwoods, relieved by 
backgrounds of subtle and delicate minor hues, 
swept along the borders of the great marsh, and 

[204] 



. 




THE REQUIEM OF THE LEAVES 



(From the Author s Etching) 



THE WINDING RIVER'S TREASURE 

stole away into veils of purple haze beyond. 
Fruition and fulfilment had passed over the hills 
and through the low places, and it was time for 
sleep. 

The tired grasses in the marsh were bent and 
gray. Among their dull masses the current of 
the open stream crept in a maze of silvery lines, 
that wound back in many retreating loops, and 
then moved slowly on, seemingly reluctant to 
enter into the oblivion of the depths beyond the 
passage through the dunes. 

Wedges of wild geese trailed across the great 
clouds — valiant voyagers along the unseen paths 
of the sky. In the darkness their turbulent cries 
came out of the regions of the upper air, faint 
echoes of the Song of Life from the vault of the 
Infinite. 

"Them winds 'as got an edge on 'em. I guess 
we gotta git out o' here, Bill," declared Sipes, as he 
warmed his numbed hands before the fire. "The 
news o' that jool'll git 'round, an' the fust thing 
we know this country'll be full o' robbers. They'll 
swipe it, an' you an' me'll 'ave to work the rest of 
our lives, an' mebbe eat carps, instid o' set'n' on 
soft cushions an' smok'n'. The clams is 'bout all 

[205] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

cleaned out an' we got a fort'n'. Wot's the use 
o' try'n' to grab it all ? We got plenty to last us, 
an' we can't take no cash-money to the grave- 
yard with us. We'll git hold o' that onion- 
skinnin' feller, an' mebbe 'e c'n peel some o' them 
other jools, an' make 'em wuth a lot more. 

"We c'n do anything we want to now. Mebbe 
we'll buy a big red church fer Holy Zeke, so 'e 
c'n git in it an' spout damnation up the chimbly 
all by 'imself, an' not come 'round us. I wonder 
wot that ol' cuss is doin' nowdays? Anyway, 
we'll buy 'im a new hard hat, an' a ticket that'll 
carry 'im way off." 

The pearls were carefully concealed on the 
Crawfish. The sail, which had done duty as a 
shelter on shore, was put back in its place, and 
everything was snugly stowed on board. The 
boat that Narcissus had borrowed "offen Cap'n 
Peppehs" was attached, with my own, to the 
stern of the larger craft, and we were ready to 
push out into the current, when we saw Spotty 
contemplating us with mild eyes from among 
the trees. 

"Gosh! I gotta bid that ol' girl good-by," 
exclaimed Sipes, as he seized a pail and nimbly 

[206] 



THE WINDING RIVER'S TREASURE 

hopped ashore. When he returned the homeward 
voyage began. 

We threaded the sinuous channel for hours be- 
fore we came to the sand-hills. 

"This big dump's full o' jools," remarked 
Sipes, as he indicated the marsh with a broad 
sweep of his hand. "Next year we'll come down 
'ere an' bag the whole bunch." ' . 

Narcissus, who had stuck by us faithfully, was 
anxious to go and spend the winter at the fish shanty. 
The old men were immensely pleased both with 
him and his cooking, and cheerfully consented. 

The current took us through the hills, and we 
tied up at the dilapidated pier. We were out of 
tobacco, and other small necessities, and needed 
some gasoline, as Sipes wanted to "tune up" the 
motor, in case we found no wind on the lake. 
Narcissus was provided with a list, some funds, 
and the gasoline can, and he went ashore. Sipes 
considered that he was perfectly reliable up to 
five dollars in prohibition territory. We saw him 
swinging his can gayly, as he walked up the little 
path that led to the village and disappeared 
around a bend. We had had a wonderful trip, 
and everybody was in high spirits. 

[207] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

We waited nearly an hour for Narcissus, but 
he did not return. We got ashore and went up 
to the general store, where he was to do his shop- 
ping, but he had not been seen. Further search 
around the village was fruitless. Thinking that 
he might have returned to the boat by another 
route, we retraced our steps, and found the can in 
some weeds near the bend where we last saw him. 

With sudden inspiration, Sipes ran to the 
boat. He dived into the cabin, and we heard an 
angry yell. 

"Holy Mike! He's frisked the jools!" 

We hurried on board. The tin box had 
disappeared. 

"We put 'em between them boards back o' 
that little cuddy-hole. He swiped 'em an' 'e's 
lit out! Hold on a minute!" cried the distracted 
old man, as, with a glimmer of hope on his pale 
face, he again ducked into the cabin. 

"Gosh! We'r' saved!" he exclaimed, as he 
emerged with the big pearl. "Bully fer us! I 
stuck this in a crack with some paper, an' 'e 
missed it." 

Saunders had been too much overcome by the 
sudden misfortune to say much. He appeared 

[208] 



THE WINDING RIVER'S TREASURE 

crushed. His face lighted up when it was found 
that the disaster was not complete. 

The question now was to catch Narcissus Jack- 
son. He had had about two hours' start. 

"Gimme that gun!" commanded Sipes. "I'll 
pot that nigger, if I git 'im inside o' fifty yards. 
This gun ain't loaded with no jools like that 
Injun's was!" 

Adjectives are weapons of temperament. Sipes 
had a plentiful supply of both. The past, pres- 
ent, and future of Narcissus Jackson was com- 
pletely covered by a torrent of scarifying invective. 

The next day we gave up the search, in which 
we were excitedly assisted by the villagers and 
scattered farmers. We returned to the boat and 
rowed it out into the calm lake, where we waited 
for a breeze. The motor had again "gone punk." 

"That smoke's jest natch'ally drifted off," re- 
marked Sipes philosophically, as we floated idly 
on the gentle swells, "but we got enough to make 
us rich; wot do we care? I guess that 'dark 
secret' that Bill said this trip was, was set'n on 
them rocks w'en we fust come in the river. Think 
of all wot we done fer 'im! Me offerin' 'im that 
whole cupful w'en 'e was sick, an' git'n' milk fer 

[209] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

'im to cook with, an' all them things you an' 
Bill did, an' now 'e's hornswoggled us. They 
ain't no gratitude. That smoke's jest like all the 
rest of 'em!" 

"You have had a prosperous trip," I replied. 
"You will probably get a high price for your big 
pearl, and you won't have to worry about money 
for quite a while. You had better get this trouble 
off your mind. Surplus wealth is mere dross." 

"How much dross d'ye think that damn cookie'll 
git fer them jools?" 

"He will get very little. You had spoiled the 
lustre on most of them by constantly shaking 
the box." 

"If I'd knowed 'e was goin' to frisk 'em, I'd a 
shook the stuff'n' out of 'em!" 

During a visit to the village store, Saunders 
had written a letter to the "onion-skinner," as 
Sipes persisted in calling the pearl-buyer, and 
mailed it to the address on the margin of the 
pamphlet. He described the location of the fish 
shanty, and informed him of the finding of the 
big pearl. He also told of the robbery, described 
Narcissus, and asked him to have him "nabbed" 
if he came to sell him the stolen pearls, which he 

[210] 



THE WINDING RIVER'S TREASURE 

probably would do. Saunders spent much time 
writing and rewriting the letter. Sipes stood over 
him and cautioned him repeatedly not to say any- 
thing in it that "looked like we wanted to sell 
the jool." 

"Cat's paws" appeared on the water. The 
breeze freshened rapidly, and there were white- 
caps on the lake shortly after we began to make 
fair headway. The wind increased, the boat 
careened under the pressure of the broad sail, 
and we shipped water copiously several times. 
Fortunately I had left my row-boat and tent with 
a fisherman at the village, who was to care for 
them during the winter, so we did not have these 
to bother us. I felt relieved when we saw the 
shanty in the distance. 

"Hard-a-port, Bill," commanded Sipes in a 
stentorian tone as he loosened the main-sheet. 
We turned in toward shore. Like a roving gal- 
leon proudly returning from distant seas, with her 
treasure in her hold, the gallant Crawfish tore in 
through the curling waves and flying spray, and 
felt the foam of her home waters over her prow. 

We all got soaking wet getting in through the 
surf. The long rope from the windlass on the 

[211] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

sand, composed of many odd pieces, knotted to- 
gether, was finally attached to the iron ring on 
the bow, and the now historic craft was hauled out 
over the wooden rollers to its berth on the beach. 

We had commenced taking some of the stuff 
out of the boat, when we suddenly paused with 
astonishment, and looked toward the shanty. 
Mingled with the voices of the wind, and the roar 
of the surf, we faintly, but unmistakably, heard 
the thrilling strains of "Money Musk" issuing 
from the weather beaten structure. 

"Now wot d'ye think o' that!" exclaimed 
Sipes. "That damn cookie's in there. He don't 
know it's our place an' 'e thinks 'e's escaped. We 
got 'im trapped. Gimme the gun! 

I happened to know that the gun was not 
loaded, and had no fears that there would be any 
shooting. In solid formation we marched to the 
shanty. The padlock on the door was undis- 
turbed. Sipes unlocked it. Narcissus sat on the 
pile of nets inside and regarded us with a fright- 
ened expression. Evidently the wind had pre- 
vented him from hearing us when we landed. 
He seemed overawed by the presence of the gun 
and our angry looks. 

[212 ] 



THE WINDING RIVER'S TREASURE 

"Say, Boss, lemme off!" he begged, as he 
looked up at me pleadingly. 

"Narcissus, where are those pearls?" I de- 
manded. 

" Pea'ls ? Ah don't know nuff'n 'bout no pea'ls ! 
Ah ain't seen no pea'ls! Is theah some pea'ls 
miss n r 

"Of course they're miss'n', an' you know it, 
you black devil!" roared Sipes, as he cocked his 
gun. "You shell out them jools, er yer goin' to 
be shot right 'ere this minute!" 

Narcissus's face turned ashen gray. 

"Ah ain't nevah touched no pea'ls! Ah ain't 
nevah seen you gen'lemen's pea'ls since you had 
'em at the camp. Gimme a Bible an' Ah'll take 
ma oath!" 

While I knew that he was quite safe in asking 
Sipes for a Bible, his earnest denial seemed to 
have the ring of sincerity. I took Sipes aside, 
leaving Saunders with the now thoroughly terri- 
fied negro. He leaned against the side of the 
shanty and seemed in such mental agony that 
I felt sorry for him. 

I asked Sipes to show me exactly where he had 
placed the tin box. With a small electric flash- 

[213] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

light we explored a deep recess between the 
boards back of the cuddy-hole, and found the 
box, wedged about a foot below where the old 
man had hidden it. Sipes seized it with a shout 
of jubilation. He and Saunders acted like a 
couple of small boys who had just been told that 
they could stay out of school and go to a circus. 

The mystery of Narcissus's disappearance and 
his presence in the shanty was still to be explained. 
He was greatly relieved when the box was found, 
but seemed too much confused by the sudden 
flood of events to talk, so we let him alone. That 
night, after the shanty was put in order, and a 
fire built in the stove, he told his story. 

"When Ah took that gas can, an' went fo' 
them things at the stoah, Ah jest thought Ah'd 
stop at Cap'n Peppehs's house. That's the fi'st 
li'l house Ah come to. Ah wanted to thank 'im 
fo' the boat Ah got offen 'im, an' tell 'im Ah hoped 
'e was well. Ah left the can neah the path. 
Cap'n Peppehs asked me all about you gen'lemen, 
an' wanted me to come in a minute. He wanted 
to know what you-all had done up the rivah, an' 
if you got any pea'ls. Ah didn't tell 'im nuff'n. 
Then 'e got out 'is bottle, an' we had some drinks. 

[214] 



THE WINDING RIVER'S TREASURE 

Then 'e asked me 'bout yo' motah, an' how you 
come by it. I told 'im you got it offen a fish man 
named John. Then 'e told me John got it f om 
him, an' 'e didn't want me to let you know that." 

"And to think," interrupted Sipes, "that we had 
that cuss right in the boat, an' didn't know it!" 

"Then, aftah a while, we got to feel'n' pretty 
good, an' Ah done fergot all 'bout the gasoline. 
We looked out o' the window, an' theah was Mr. 
Sipes goin' 'round with 'is gun. We didn't know 
whethah he thought Ah'd run off with that li'l 
bunch o' money Ah was goin' to get the things 
with, er was aftah Cap'n Peppehs' 'count o' that 
motah, an' Ah jest thought we'd keep still fo' 
a while 'till Mr. Sipes put away 'is gun. Ah was 
sca'ed o' that gun. Aftah that Cap'n Peppehs 
asked me mo' about the pea'ls, an' offe'd me a 
li'l mo' ref'eshment. Ah must 'a' went to sleep 
then, an' Ah didn't wake up 'til this mawnin'. 
Ah saw yo' boat way out on the lake set'n' still. 
I shuah felt bad, an' Ah was goin' to take a boat 
an' row out, but ma haid hurt so Ah couldn't. 
Ah knew 'bout wheah you lived, 'cause Ah hea'd 
you talkin' 'bout it, an' Ah jest walked 'long the 
beach 'til Ah come to the place that had yo' 

[2I S ] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

sign. The do' was locked, but Ah got the win- 
dow open an' come in that way. Ah was ve'y 
ti'ed, an' laid down fo' a nap ; then Ah got up an' 
played that li'l tune Mr. Sipes likes so much. 

"Say, Ah hope you'll lemme off. Ah ain't 
done nuff'n so awful bad. Ah'm awful sorry Ah 
made all that trouble, an' had all them drinks 
with Cap'n Peppehs. Ah fo'got all 'bout that 
gasoline, an' Ah won't nevah do nuff'n like that 
no mo*. Mr. Sipes, does theah happ'n to be jest 
a few drops in the bottom o' the jug, that Ah c'd 
have? Honest, Ah feels weak!" 

Narcissus met with the full measure of forgive- 
ness. He had faltered by the wayside, where 
hosts have fallen. The mantle of charity was laid 
over his sin. Sipes, while usually intolerant, was 
mollified with the recovery of the pearls. 

We all slept in the shanty that night. In the 
morning we saw a horse and buggy on the beach 
in the distance. Saunders inspected the driver 
attentively through the "spotter." 

"That's the onion-skinner comin'," he re- 
marked. 

"Yes, an' I bet we'll be the onions," said Sipes, 
as he took the glass. 

[216] 



THE WINDING RIVER'S TREASURE 

The visitor arrived and looked over the fruits 
of the season's work. He did not seem at all 
dazzled by the beauty of the big pearl. He ex- 
amined it casually and laid it aside. He seemed 
more interested in the others. 

:< You be careful an' don't show no frenzy over 
that jool. You don't own it," cautioned Sipes, 
sarcastically. "You may want to buy it later if 
you ain't got enough cash-money now. Mebbe 
you know o' some rich fellers that 'ud like to buy 
intrusts in it with you." 

A substantial offer was made for the lot. The 
amount mentioned was much larger than I had 
any idea the pearls were worth. 

"They was a feller 'long 'ere yisterd'y that 
offered us twice as much as that, an' I told 'im 
'e was a cheap skate. Wot d'ye think them are 
— peanuts ? D'ye think we c'lected all them 
val'able jools jest fer love o' you? Wot d'ye 
s'pose we are — helpless orphants?" 

Most of the day was spent in jockeying over 
the price. The buyer was an expert judge of 
human nature, as well as pearls. He exhibited 
a large roll of bills at a psychological moment, 
and became the owner of the collection. 

[217] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

He drove away along the beach and turned 
into the dunes. 

"He'll prob'ly hide some'r's off'n the woods, an' 
peel some o' them jools, like 'e did us," said 
Sipes. " He oughta fly a black flag over that 
buggy, so people 'ud know wot's comin'. I've 
seen piruts in furrin waters that was all bloodied 
up, but 'side o' that robber, they'd look like a 
lot o' funny kids. Bill, you oughta keep yer 
mouth shut w'en I'm sell'n' jools! You butted 
in all the time an' spoilt wot I was doin'. If 
you'd a kep' still, I'd 'a' got jest twice them Ag- 
gers. By rights, I oughta keep wot's 'ere fer my 
half an' let you w'istle fer the half that that 
feller saved by you shoot'n' off yer mouth at the 
wrong times." 

That night I sat before the dying embers of 
driftwood and mused over the eventful weeks. 

I remembered the picturesque camp scenes; 
the genial gatherings around the fire; the advent 
of Narcissus, — his lovable qualities, frailties, and 
final vindication; the sociability of Spotty; the 
Ancient's graphic reminiscences; the finding of 
the big pearl, and the odd combination of child- 
ish foibles, homely wit, kindliness, cupidity, 

[218] 



THE WINDING RIVER'S TREASURE 

shrewdness, and primitive savagery in the old 
shipmates. 

The mingled glories of the autumn came back, 
with memories of the fragrant woods; the broad 
sweeps of changing color over the swamp-land ; the 
majesty of the onward marching storms; the songs 
of the wind through trees and bending grasses; 
the music and beauty of rippling currents; the 
companionship and voices of the wild things; the 
witchery of twilight mists and purple shadows, 
and the enchantment of moon-silvered vistas. 

I felt again the haunting mystery that is over 
the marsh, along the river through the silent 
nights, and in its fecund depths, where pearls are 
wrought among hidden eddies. 

Under the gently moving water was the dream- 
land of the reflections. The dark forests and the 
ghostly dunes hung low in the realm of unreality. 
Beyond them the Pleiades and Orion glowed 
softly in the limitless abyss that held the endless 
story of the stars. 

The Ego, mocking the Infinite with puny 
dogma, in its minute orbit — a speck between 
two eternities — recoils in terror from the void 
beyond the world. 

[219] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

The river bears a secret in its bosom deeper 
than its pearls. He who learns it has found the 
melodies that brood among tremulous strings in 
the human heart. 

I meditated, and wondered if I, or the valiant 
crew of the flatboat, had found the Winding 
River's Treasure? 



[ 220] 



X 

THE PLUTOCRATS 



X 

THE PLUTOCRATS 

THE invitation of the old shipmates to 
remain with them for a while was grate- 
fully accepted. The witchery of the 
changing landscapes and the color-crowned dunes 
was irresistible. The society of my odd friends, 
which was full of human interest, and certain 
beguiling promises made by Narcissus, were fac- 
tors that prolonged the stay. 

After a week of blustery weather, and a light 
fall of snow, the haze of Indian Summer stole 
softly over the hills. The mystic slumberous 
days had come, when, in listless reverie, we may 
believe that the spirits of a vanished race have 
returned to the woods, and are dancing around 
camp fires that smoulder in hidden places. Spec- 
tral forms sit in council through the still nights, 
when the moon, red and full-orbed, comes up 
out of a sea of mist. Smoke from phantom wig- 
wams creeps through the forest. Unseen arrows 
have touched the leaves that carpet aisles among 
the trees where myriad banners have fallen. 

[223] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

Our drift-wood fire glowed on the beach in the 
evening. Sipes piled on all sorts of things that 
kept it much larger than necessary. With reck- 
less prodigality, he dragged forth boxes, damaged 
rope, broken oars, and miscellaneous odds and 
ends, that under former conditions would have 
been carefully kept. 

Sipes and Saunders were in high spirits. They 
walked with an elastic swagger that bespoke 
supreme confidence in themselves, and a lofty 
disdain of the rest of the world. There was much 
discussion of plans for the future. 

"We got all kinds o' money now, an' we c'n 
spread out,'* declared Sipes. "We gotta git ol' 
John an' 'is horse down 'ere, an' take care of 'em. 
That ol' nag's dragged millions o' pounds o' fish 
'round fer us, an' 'e oughta have a rest. They'r' 
both git'n' too old to work any more, an', outside 
o' me an' Bill an' Cookie, them's the only ones 
that lives round 'ere that's fit to keep alive through 
the cold weather. 

"We gotta haul down that ol' sign on the 
shanty, 'cause we've gone out o' the fish business. 
We'r' goin' to fix this place all over. All them 
fellers that has money, an' lives in the country, 

[224] 



THE PLUTOCRATS 

an' don't work, has signs out that's got names on 
'em fer their places. I drawed out the new sign 
with the pencil yisterd'y, an' this is wot it's goin' 
to be." 

He unfolded a piece of soiled wrapping paper, 
on which he had rudely lettered — 

"The names won't be on it, but shipmates'll 
mean us all right. The sign'll still look like cash- 
money, an' you bet we'r' goin' to rest, so that 
sign's all right, an' she's goin' up." 

Catfish John and Napoleon arrived the next 
morning. 

"You can't git no more fish 'ere!" announced 
Sipes, after he had made his usual derisive com- 
ments on the old peddler's general appearance. 
"This place 'as changed hands. Some fellers 
own it now that don't 'ave to work. You'r' a 
wuthless oP slab-sided wreck, an' you ain't no 
good peddlin' fish. You oughta be 'shamed o' 
yerself. Yer oP horse is a crowbait, an' yer fish 
waggin's on the bum. You git down offen it an' 
come 'ere. We got sump'n we want to tell you." 

John willingly admitted that all the charges 
[225] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

were true, as he slowly and painfully descended 
from the rickety vehicle. 

"Now listen 'ere, John," continued Sipes seri- 
ously, "us fellers 'as got rich out o' the jools wot 
we fished out o' the river. WeV jest goin to set 
'round an' look pleasant, an' quit work'n. You've 
been our oP friend fer years, an' we got enough 
to keep you an' Napoleon in tobaccy an' hay fer 
the rest o' yer lives. You're a nice pair, an' if 
you'll go in the lake an' wash up, we'll burn all 
yer ol' nets, an' the other stuff up to your place, 
an' yer ol' boat, too, an' you c'n come down 'ere 
an' live. We don't want none o' them things 
'ere, fer it 'ud make us tired to look at 'em. We 
don't want to see nothin' that looks like work 
'round 'ere, no more'n we c'n help, but you gotta 
help haul some lumber. WeV goin' to tack some 
more rooms on the shanty. It ain't a fit place 
fer fellers like us to live in." 

John was greatly pleased over the good fortune 
that had come to his friends, and happy over 
the plans that had been made for his future. He 
said little, but I noticed that his eyes were moist 
as he limped over to the shanty to be "inter- 
duced to Cookie." 

[226] 



THE PLUTOCRATS 

"Ah ce't'nly am glad to meet you, Mr. Cat- 
fish!" said Narcissus, cordially, as they shook 
hands. "Ah've hea'd a great deal 'bout you 
f'om these gen'lemen. Ah would like to make a 
li'l cup o' coffee fo' you. Jest have a seat an* 
Ah'll have it ready in jest a few minutes." 

John looked at him gratefully and sat down. 
He was much impressed by the evidences of 
prosperity around him. The old pine table was 
covered with a cloth that was spotless, except 
where Sipes had spilled a "loose egg" on one 
corner of it. There was a bewildering array of 
new clean dishes and kitchen utensils about the 
room, and some boxes that had not yet been un- 
packed. Narcissus had been given carte blanche 
as to the domestic arrangements. He was chef, 
valet, major domo, and general manager. 

"Cookie's boss o' the eats an' the beds, an' 
ev'rythin' else 'round the house, 'cept drinks," 
declared Saunders. 

He had made several trips to the village with 
the old cronies and they had acquired a large part 
of the stock of the general store. Their advent 
must have been a godsend to the aged proprietor. 

"Now, John," said Sipes, after the old man 
[227] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

had finished his coffee, "you c'n go back to yer 
place jest once, an' fetch anythin' you want to 
keep that's small, but don't you bring nothin' 
that weighs over a pound, an' then you come an' 
sleep in the cabin o' the Crawfish till we git the 
new fix'n's on the shanty. We'll feed you up so 
you'll feel like a prize-fighter, an' we'll make 
Napoleon into a spring colt. He c'n stay in the 
work-shed 'til we make a barn fer 'im. WeV 
goin' up there tomorrer night, an' weY goin' to 
burn up the whole mess wot you leave, an' you 
can't go with us. We'll chuck ev'rythin' into 
that cussed ol' smoke-house, an' set fire to it. 
Tomorrer night's the night, an' don't you fergit 
it!" 

John stayed for a couple of hours, but did little 
talking. Evidently he was deeply touched. He 
drove away slowly up the beach toward the only 
home he had known for many years. His quiet, 
undemonstrative nature was calloused by the 
unconscious philosophy of the poor. Gratitude 
welled from a fountain deep in his heart, but its 
outward flow was restrained by the rough barriers 
that a lifetime of unremitting toil and poverty 
had thrown around his honest soul. 

[228] 



THE PLUTOCRATS 

He returned late the following afternoon. His 
wagon contained a few things that he said he 
wanted to keep, no matter what happened to him. 

"Thar ain't no value to the stuff I got 'ere, 
'cept to me. If you'll put this in a safe place 
'til things git settled, I'll be much obliged," said 
the old man, as he extracted a small package 
from an inside pocket. He carefully opened it 
and showed us an old daguerreotype. A rather 
handsome young man, dressed in the style of the 
early fifties, sat stiffly in a high-backed chair. 
Beside him, trustfully holding his hand, was a 
sweet-faced girl in bridal costume. Pride and 
happiness beamed from her eyes. 

"That thar's me an' Mary the day we was 
married. She died the year after it was took," 
said the old fisherman, slowly. There was ten- 
derness in the quiet look that he bestowed on the 
picture, and the care with which he rewrapped it 
and handed it to Saunders for safe-keeping. 

The old daguerreotype had been treasured for 
over half a century. I knew that tears had fallen 
upon it in silent hours. Its story was in the old 
man's face as he turned and walked over to his 
wagon to get the rest of his things. 

[229] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

"Now, hooray fer the fireworks!" shouted 
Sipes, when we had finished our after-dinner 
pipes in the evening. By the light of the lantern, 
the small row-boat was shoved into the lake. 
John watched the sinister preparations with mis- 
givings. As we rowed away, Sipes called out 
cheerily, "Now you brace up, John; you ain't 
got no kick comin' ! You c'n stay an' play with 
Cookie. He'll make you some more coffee, an' 
you'll find a big can o' tobaccy on the shelf." 

The old shipmates did not intend that any 
lingering affection that John might retain for his 
old habitat, or any heartaches, should interfere 
with his enjoyment of his new home, or with their 
delight in burning his old one. They had grimly 
resolved that the transition should be complete 
and irrevocable. 

We reached the old fisherman's former abode 
in due time. We found the tattered nets wound 
on the reels, which were old and much broken. 
We piled all of the loose stuff on the beach around 
the nets, and the leaky boat was set up endwise 
against them. With the lantern we explored the 
disreputable little smoke-house. It was filled 
with fish tubs, bait pails, and confused rubbish, 

[230] 



THE PLUTOCRATS 

and was redolent with fishy odors of the past 
that Saunders declared "a clock couldn't tick 
in." 

We climbed up to the shanty on the edge of the 
bluff. The door of the ramshackle structure was 
fastened with a piece of old hitching strap that 
was looped over a nail. We entered and looked 
around the squalid interior. Four bricks in the 
middle of the room supported a nondescript stove. 
A rough bench stood against the wall, and a few 
tin plates, cups, and kettles were scattered about. 
The only other room was John's sleeping apart- 
ment. A decrepit bedstead, that had seen better 
days and nights, an old hay mattress, a couple 
of much soiled blankets, a cracked mirror, some 
candle stubs, and two broken chairs were the 
only articles we found in it. 

"All some people needs to make 'em happy is 
a lookin' glass," observed Sipes, "but ol' John 
ain't stuck on 'imself; wot does 'e want with it? 
He prob'ly busted it w'en 'e peeked in it to see 
if 'is ol' hat was on straight." 

" I hope John's got some insurance on this place," 
Saunders remarked, as he dragged the mattress 
to the wall and piled the bedstead and chairs on 

[231] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

it. We found a bottle half full of kerosene under 
the bench, which we emptied over the floor. 

"Now gimme a match!" demanded Sipes. 

When we reached the foot of the bluff the 
flames were merrily at work above us. The 
smoke-house, and the stuff accumulated around 
the nets, were soon on fire. We next visited 
Napoleon's humble quarters on the sand, and 
another column of smoke and flame was added to 
the joy of the occasion. 

"We can't leave fer awhile yet," said Saunders; 
"no fire's any good 'less somebody's 'round to 
poke it." 

We spent considerable time watching the fires, 
to assure ourselves that the destruction was com- 
plete, and that there was no possibility of the 
flames on the bluff getting into the woods beyond 
through the dry weeds on the sand. There was 
a light off-shore breeze, so there was little danger. 

"That ol' joint's clean at last," observed Sipes, as 
we rowed away in the early hours of the morning. 

From far away we looked upon the scene of 
Catfish John's dreary life, illumined by gleams 
from the smouldering embers that played along 
the face of the bluff. 

[232] 



THE PLUTOCRATS 

There were essentials that the old man's hum- 
ble surroundings had lacked. Long sad years 
were interwoven with them, but the faded face 
in the old daguerreotype may have lighted the 
dark rooms and helped to make the lonely place 
an anchorage, for is home anywhere but in the 
heart? It does not seem to consist of material 
things. Absence, estrangement, and death de- 
stroy it — not fire. Sometimes, out of the losses 
and wrecks of life, it is rebuilded, but not of wood 
and stone. 

I arranged with John to transport my few 
belongings to the railroad station the next day, 
and regretfully left the contented old mariners 
and their happy "cookie," who was no small 
part of the riches that had come from the Wind- 
ing River. 

On the way through the hills the old man 
opened his heart. 

"Now wot d'ye think o' them ol' fellers? They 
battered 'round the seas an' they been up ag'in 
pretty near ev'rythin' they is. They come in 
these hills an' settled down to fish'n'. We alw'ys 
got 'long well together. I done little things fer 
them an' they done little things fer me. Sipes 

[233] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

is a queer ol' cod, an' so's Saunders, but all of us 
has quirks, an' they ain't nobody that pleases 
ev'rybody else. Now them ol' fellers has got rich. 
I don't know how much they got, but w'en any- 
body gits a lot o' money you c'n alw'ys tell wot 
they really was all the time they didn't have it. 
They'r' all right, an' you bet I like 'em, an' I 
alw'ys did. They drink some, but they don't go 
to town an' go 'round all day shoppin' in s'loons, 
like some fellers do. Mebbe they'll git busted 
some day, an I c'n do sump'n fer 'em like they 
done fer me." 

I bade my old friend farewell on the railroad 
platform and departed. 

In response to a letter sent to him in January, 
John was at the station when I stepped off the 
train one crisp morning a week after I wrote, but 
it was a metamorphosed John who stood before 
me. He was muffled up in a heavy overcoat and 
fur cap. He wore a gray suit, new high-topped 
boots, and leather fur-backed gloves. I hardly 
recognized him. Much as I was delighted with 
these evidences of his comfort, there was an in- 
ward pang, for the picturesque and fishy John, 

C234] 



THE PLUTOCRATS 

who had been one of the joys of former years, 
was gone. This was a reincarnation. The strange 
toggery seemed discordant. Somehow his general 
air, and the protuberance of his high coat collar 
above the back of his head, suggested an Indian 
chief, great in his own environment, who had 
been rescued out of barbarism and debased by 
an unwelcome civilization. He was like some 
rare old book that had been revised and expur- 
gated into inanity. 

"I got yer letter," said the old man, after our 
greetings, "an' 'ere I am! I yelled out at ye, fer I 
didn't think you'd know me. What d'ye think o' 
all this stuff them oP fellers 'as got hooked on me?" 

Napoleon, sleek and apparently happy, with a 
new blanket over him, was standing near the 
country store, hitched to a light bobsled. 

I congratulated the old man and inquired about 
our mutual friends. After we had put the baggage 
and some supplies from the store into the sled, we 
adjusted ourselves comfortably under a thick robe, 
and Napoleon trotted away on the road, with a 
merry jingle of two sleigh-bells on his new harness. 

There were no tracks on the road after we got 
into the wooded hills, except those made by 

[235] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

Napoleon and the sled a couple of hours before, 
and the cross trails of rabbits and birds that had 
left the tiny marks on the snow, in their search 
for stray bits of food that the frost and winter 
winds might have spared for their keeping. 

Nature in her nudity is prodigal of alluring 
charms on her winter landscapes. The forests, 
cold, still, and bare, stretched away over the un- 
dulating contours of the dunes in their mantle 
of snow. The lacery of naked branches, silvered 
with frost, was etched against the moody sky. 

He who is alone in the winter woods is in a 
realm of the spirit where the only borders are the 
limits of fancy. The big trees, like sentinels grim 
and gray, seem to keep watch and ward over the 
treasures that lie in the hush of the frozen ground, 
where a mighty song awaits the wand of the 
South Wind. The winding sheet that lies upon 
the white hills hides the promise as well as the 
sorrow. The great mystery of earth's fecundity 
that is under the chaste raiment of the snow is 
the mystery of all life, and to it the questioning 
soul must ever come. The message of our loved 
ones, who are under the white folds, may be 
among the petals of the flowers when they open. 

[236] 




ON THE WHITE HILLS 



(From the Author s Etching) 



THE PLUTOCRATS 

When we descended the steep road to the 
beach, we saw Shipmates' Rest in the distance. 
Saunders came out to greet us on our arrival. 
He was enveloped in a heavy reefer, and wore 
a rather sporty-looking new cap. He conducted 
us into what was once the fish shanty, but, alas, 
what a change! It had been almost entirely re- 
built. There were five rooms. A stairway led 
to a trap door in the roof, above which was a 
railed-in, covered platform. A stone fireplace had 
replaced the old stove, and there was a large new 
cook stove in the kitchen, where Narcissus reigned 
supreme. I was struck with the almost immacu- 
late cleanliness of the place. While the archi- 
tecture was nerve-racking, and seemed to pursue 
lines of the most resistance, it looked very com- 
fortable. 

"Sipes is out hunt'n rabbits. He'll be back 
shortly," said Saunders. "You jest hang up yer 
things an' make yerself to home. Cookie's out 
back undressin' some fowls, an' 'e'll be glad to 
see you." 

Narcissus soon appeared with a grin on his 
honest face. 

"Ah ce't'nly am glad to see you down heah 
[237] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

again!" he exclaimed. "Ah was just fixin' some 
chick'ns, an' tomorrow we'll have a fracassee with 
dumplin's. Chick'ns have to wait ovah night in 
salt watah fo' they ah cooked, but we got pa't- 
ridges fo' today. Ah you fond of them?" 

Idle questions, propounded simply to make con- 
versation, often inspire doubt of normal mental- 
ity. I had brought a new mouth organ and a 
ukelele for him from the city, and his delight over 
the little gifts quite repaid their cost. 

My old friend Sipes arrived during the next 
hour, without any rabbits, and we had a happy 
reunion over the delicately roasted partridges. 
There were six of them, with little bits of bacon 
on their breasts — like decorations for valor on 
the field. 

Sipes presided at the head of the table with the 
air of a medieval robber baron who had returned 
to his castle from a successful foray. A napkin 
was tied around his neck, and he wielded his 
knife and fork with impressive gusto. Prosper- 
ity had begun to bubble. I was told the prices 
of everything in sight, and informed of the cost 
of the glass that he had used to make a small 
skylight in the north room, so as to adapt it for 

[238] 



THE PLUTOCRATS 

a studio. In the fall I had jokingly alluded to 
something of this kind, but had no idea that it 
would be included in the plans. Compensation 
was grandly refused. 

'You'r' in on all this, an' we want you to stick 
'round 'ere w'en you ain't got nothin' else to do. 
You knowed us w'en we didn't 'ave a dollar, an' 
you thought jest as much of us, so you quit talkin' 
'bout payin' fer sky-view glass. There's nothin' 
doin'!" 

During the afternoon we heard intermittent 
strains of "Money-Musk" from the new mouth 
organ in the kitchen, accompanied by experi- 
mental fingering of the ukelele. Narcissus had 
devised an ingenious framework, which he had 
put on his head, to hold the mouth organ in place, 
and enable him to use his hands for the other in- 
strument, but it was only partially successful. 

One of the objects of the winter visit was to 
make some sketches of Saunders and Narcissus 
for this volume, which had been neglected during 
the fall. They seemed pleased, and were willing 
models. Saunders insisted on wetting and comb- 
ing his hair carefully, and getting into stilted atti- 
tudes. He was finally persuaded to let his hair 

[239] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

alone and wear his old cap. He was anxious that 
his ancient meerschaum pipe should be in the 
picture. It seeped with the nicotine of many years. 

"The tobaccy that's been puffed in that ol' 
pipe 'ud cover a ten-acre lot," he declared, and I 
believed him. "You can't show that in the 
pitcher, but you c'n make it look kind o' dark 
like. Gener'ly I smoke 'Bosun's Delight' an' 
it's pretty good. It's strong stuff an' none of it 
ever gits swiped." 

When the drawing was finished he criticized it 
severely, which was quite natural, for no human 
being is entirely without vanity. Portrait artists, 
like courtiers, must flatter to succeed. 

Narcissus also wanted a pipe in his picture. He 
thought it would look better than a mouth organ, 
and, as it was much easier to draw, I humored 
him. He posed with unctuous ceremony, and as- 
sumed some most serious and baffling expressions. 

Sipes watched the proceedings with interest, 
and enlivened them with running comment. 

"I been through all that lots o' times. You 
fellers ain't got nothin' on me, an' if you ever git 
in a book you'll look like a couple o' horse thieves. 
I know wot e' done to me." 

[240] 



THE PLUTOCRATS 

The disapproval of these particular sketches was 
probably deserved. It is a fact, however, that, 
while readily admitting limitations in other fields 
of knowledge, there are few people who hesitate 
to criticize any kind of art work authoritatively. 
Their immunity from error seems to them remark- 
able, and to be the result of a natural instinct 
that they have possessed from childhood. "I 
know what I like" is a common and much abused 
expression. They who use it usually do not know 
what they like or what they ought to like. The 
phrase covers infinite ignorance, with a compla- 
cent disposition of the subject. The assumption 
of critical infallibility is complete before a portrait 
of the critic. 

Many otherwise intelligent critics respect only 
age and established art dogma. The dead mas- 
ters haunt pedantic essayists and opulent pur- 
chasers, who accept embalmed opinions that they 
would be incapable of forming for themselves. 
Extended consideration of this subjecl: is out of 
place amid the landscapes of Duneland, where 
the shades of the justly revered old painters may 
have deserted their madonnas and be wielding 
spiritual brushes, charged with elusive tints that 

[241] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

flow unerringly upon canvases as tenuous as the 
evening mists. On them filmy portraits of the 
old dwellers along the shore may take form and 
vanish with the morning light, for in these rugged 
faces are the same attributes that made humanity 
picturesque centuries ago. If one of these por- 
traits could suddenly materialize, it would bring 
a staggering price, if there was no suspicion that 
a modern had painted it. Some stray rhymester 
has aptly said: 

"// Leonardo done it, 
It is a masterpiece. 
If Mr. Lucas made it, 

'Tis but a mass o' grease." 

"We gotta git some pitchers fer them walls," 
declared Sipes, "an' you buy 'em fer us. Git 
some colored ones that's got boats in 'em, an' 
some fight'n scenes. I'd like to git a nice smooth 
han'-painted pitcher o' John L. Sullivan, an' I 
don't care wot it costs!" 

The old man wanted these things to enjoy. 
His purse pride had not yet suggested the idea 
of posing as a connoisseur and condescending 
patron of the enshrined dead, without love or 

[242] 



THE PLUTOCRATS 

understanding of what they did, but the germs 
were there that might enthrall him in the future, 
for affluence sometimes begets strange vanities. 

Great masses of ice had been tumbled and 
heaped along the shore by the winter waves, and 
we saw little of the lake, except when we climbed 
the bluffs. The winds howled over the desolate 
beach at night in angry portent, and one morn- 
ing a driving storm came out of the north. Occa- 
sionally, from somewhere out above the waves 
that thundered against the ice, we could hear 
plaintive cries of gulls that groped through the 
blinding snow. The drifts piled high against the 
bluffs on the wild coast. The flying flakes were 
swept along in thick clouds by the fury of the 
gale. The house was almost buried. The wind 
subsided after about twenty-four hours, but the 
snow continued and fell ceaselessly for three 
days. 

When the skies cleared we opened the trap door 
to the "crow's nest," the covered platform over 
the roof, and looked out over the white waste. 
A few straggling crows accented the immaculate 
expanse, the blue billows were pounding the ice 
packs, and a part of the mast of the Crawfish pro- 

[243] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

truded in the foreground, but everything else was 
white and still. 

We were snowbound for ten days, but content- 
ment reigned at Shipmates' Rest. We dug deep 
paths that enabled us to reach our water supply, 
and to communicate with Napoleon in his cosy 
little barn in the ravine. 

The plentiful supply of canned goods, that 
Narcissus had wisely laid in, was drawn upon for 
sustenance. 

"Them air-tights is life savers!" exclaimed Sipes, 
as he mixed up some lobster, lima beans, ripe 
olives, and prunes on his plate. "Wot's the use 
o' monkeyin' with them fresh things w'en you 
c'n git grub like this that's all cooked an' ready? 
All ye need is a can opener to live up as high 
as ye want to go. Gimme some o' that pineapple 
fer this lobster, an' pass John them dill pickles!" 

"You better let Cookie chop up that mess fer 
you an' squirt some lollydop on it, an' eat it with 
a spoon," advised Saunders; "yer git'n' it all over 
us! 

"It's too bad they can't can pie," said Sipes, 
"but we got pudd'n's. Hi, there, Cookie, fetch 
some o' them little brown cans an' tap 'em!" 

[244] 



THE PLUTOCRATS 

Narcissus appeared with a delicious cranberry 
pie, "with slats on it," and the pudding was 
forgotten. 

"This is the life!" continued the old man, as 
he broke some crackers into his coffee, "wot do 
we care fer expense?" 

Our evenings were spent in various interest- 
ing ways. John and Narcissus had grown very 
fond of each other, and they spent much time 
playing checkers. Numberless sound waves went 
out into the dark, over the cold snow, that 
came from music, laughter, and rattling poker 
chips. 

There are many hardships in this life, both real 
and imaginary, but being snowbound at Ship- 
mates' Rest is not one of them. 

A typical January thaw set in, and the warm 
sunshine released us from our feathery bondage. 
The Crawfish was floated out on to the still lake, 
and we voyaged to the little town at the mouth of 
the river, from where I took the train for the 
grimy, noise-cursed city — cursed, indeed, for the 
unnecessary and preventable dirt and noise in 
most of our cities would hardly be tolerated in 
Hades. 

I>45] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

It was August when I again visited Shipmates' 
Rest. There was a lazy calm on the lake, and a 
delicate and peculiar odor from the evaporating 
water. Scattered flocks of terns, nimble-winged 
and graceful, skimmed over the surface, and 
dipped, with gentle splashes, for minnows that ' 
basked in the sun. The still air over the sandy 
bluffs shimmered in the heat. 

I found my friends in the lake, where they had 
gone to get cool, and soon joined them. 

There were more transformations on the beach. 
A mouse-colored donkey stood in the shade of the 
house, regarding us with wise and sleepy eyes. 
A black puppy gambolled at the water's edge, 
clamoring for attention. A cow, which I recog- 
nized as "Spotty," stood in the creek that flowed 
out of the ravine, peacefully chewing her cud and 
switching flies with her abbreviated tail. A couple 
of white pigs were squealing and grunting in a pen 
near the little barn, and about a dozen fluffy 
brown hens, attended by a dignified rooster, were 
wandering over the sand after stray insects. A 
tall flag-pole extended above the "crow's nest" 
on top of the house. 

All these things were explained at length, as 

[246] 



THE PLUTOCRATS 

we stood out on the smooth sandy bottom, with 
the cool water around our necks. 

"That anamile wot's huggin' the house," said 
Sipes, "is to hitch to the windlass w'en we have to 
haul the boat out. Cookie calls 'im Archibald, but 
'is real name's Mike. He goes 'round an' 'round 
with the pole, like we used to do, an' winds up 
the rope. W'en we want to run the boat in the 
lake, we got a block an' tackle wot's lashed to 
that spile out'n the water. We take the rope out 
from the boat to it, an' run it back to the windlass, 
an' Mike winds 'er out fer us. That kind o' work 
ain't fit fer nobody but a jackass, an' 'e wouldn't 
do it if 'e had money. Mike strays 'round the 
country a good deal at night fer young cabbage 
an' lettuce an' things, but he's gener'ly 'ere on 
deck in the mornin'. Cookie bought 'im an' the 
pup in the village this summer. We gotta have a 
pup, but he's a cussed nuisance. W'en 'e's in 'e 
yelps to git out, an' the minute 'e's out 'e 
howls an' scratches to git in. It takes 'bout all 
o' one feller's time to 'tend 'im, but 'e's lots o' 
company. He'll bark if anybody snoops 'round 
at night. They's val'ables 'ere an' we gotta look 
out. We call 'im Coonie, an' 'e's some dog. 

[247] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

Cookie's teachin' 'im a lot o' tricks, an' w'en 'e 
grows up Vll be good to chase patritches out o' 
the brush. 

"We bought Spotty off o' the Ancient up the 
river, an' Cookie towed 'er in 'long the road 
through the hills with a rope. Somehow I alw'ys 
liked that ol' girl, an' we gotta have milk. 

"Them squealers is to eat wot's left out o' the 
kitchen, an' next winter they'll quit squealin'. 
Them hens is from the village, too, an' their busi- 
ness is to make aigs. Next year we'll have slews 
o* young chicks, an' some w'ite ducks. Cookie's 
got a rubber thing wot 'e fastens on that rooster's 
bill ev'ry night w'en 'e puts 'im to bed, so 'e can't 
crow an' roust us out in the mornin'. 

"We got a compass an' a binnacle an' a new 
spy-glass up in the crow's nest. Me an' Bill an' 
John set an' smoke up there in the shade an' see 
fellers work'n way off, an' watch Mike windin' up 
the boat." 

"Tell 'im 'bout the motor, long as yer goin' to 
keep this up all day," interrupted Saunders. 

"Oh, yes. We got a new one wot's built in 
aft o' the cab'n. It's got two cylinders, an' it 
works fine. We buried the old one up 'side o' 

[248] 



THE PLUTOCRATS 

Cal's dog. It 'ad to be that er us. Bill, you 
keep still w'en I'm talk'n! 

"The mast an' them halyards over the house 
is to fly signals. W'en we'r' up er down the 
beach, er out buzz'n on the lake, Cookie runs up 
the mess flag w'en it's dinner time. He uses red 
with w'ite edges fer chops an' steaks, an' the w'ite 
one with a round yellow splotch in the middle 
means aigs wot's been poached. He flys that, 
an' a square o' calico under it, w'en we'r' goin' to 
have corn beef hash an' aigs on top of it. He runs 
up a big bunch o' cotton cords w'en 'e's made 
oggrytong speggetties, an' w'en the flag's plain 
brown, it means beans. There's no knowin' wot 
that cookie's goin' to do next." 

A cool breeze came up in the evening and we 
built our usual fire on the beach, more for its 
subtle cheer than its heat, and talked over remi- 
niscences of the big snow-storm, and things that 
had happened since. 

The old sailors were in a state of opulent bliss. 
All of their desires were satisfied, except, as Sipes 
expressed it, "git'n even with two er three fellers 
I know of," and happiness reigned in their simple 
hearts. 

[249] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

Out of the tempests of many seas, their bat- 
tered ship had come, and was anchored in a 
haven of tranquillity. The languor that comes 
with satiety and completion was stealing gently 
over them. Life presented no riddles, and they 
were without illusions. So far as their capacity 
for enjoyment extended, the fair earth and the 
fulness thereof was theirs. The great blue lake, 
the floating clouds, the jewelled fire of the sun- 
sets, and the star-decked firmament belonged to 
them, as much as to anybody else. Title deeds 
to the sands, vine-clad hills, woods, and to the 
open fields, where suppliant petals drink the rain, 
could not add to their sense of possession. 

Every comfort was around them that their 
limitations could require. They were spared the 
inanities and shallow snobbery of "society," and 
the many other ills that come with existence in 
a sphere of vanity and hypocrisy. The gates of 
higher knowledge were not opened to them. Art, 
science, and literature lay in garnered hoards far 
beyond their ken, but after their lives are closed, 
who may judge of the futility, or award the 
laurel ? 

Into this happy Arcady — this land of the 
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THE PLUTOCRATS 

heart's desire and hope's fruition — softly prowled 
the onion-skinner. Like an evil wind upon a 
flowery lea, he crept out of the north over the 
wide waters. He landed at the beach with a 
boat on the still morning of a day that had prom- 
ised to be bright and fair. Eveless though this 
garden was, Satan had entered. 

Horatius T. Bascom was a man of perhaps 
forty-five. His closely cropped moustache was 
slightly gray. Under it was a mouth like a slit 
in a letter-box. It seemed to have a certain steel- 
trap quality that savored of acquirement but not 
disbursement. His eyes had a shrewd, greedy ex- 
pression, and, when he frowned, small wrinkles 
formed between them that somehow suggested 
the lines of the dollar sign — that sordid mark 
that disfigures great characters and destroys 
small ones. 

He was the type of man who signs his business 
letters with a rubber stamp facsimile signature, 
to facilitate legal evasion in the future. Such 
letters, insulting to the recipient, are also often 
stamped with a small inscription to the effect that 
they were "dictated, but not read" by the cau- 
tious sender. Altogether his personality was such 

[251] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

as to prompt one to protect his watch pocket 
with one hand and his scarf pin with the other 
while talking with him. 

"Hello, boys!" he called out glibly, as he 
walked up to our group. "You seem quite cosy 
around here. Have some cigars." He produced 
a handful and passed them around. We all hap- 
pened to be smoking, and Sipes was the only one 
who accepted the proffered weed. He put it in 
his pocket, with the remark that he would "smoke 
it some other time" — a phrase that the giver 
always inwardly resents, but the wily old man 
may have intended it to offend. 

We were not particularly enthusiastic over his 
descent into our little circle. 

"You look pretty cosy yerself," said Sipes; 
"how much did you git fer that big jool you 
gouged us out of?" 

"I sold it at a loss. It had a small imperfection 
that I didn't notice when I bought it. You cer- 
tainly got the best of that bargain." 

"They wasn't no imperfection in yer bunch 
o' bunk w'en you was buyin' it." 

We kept rather quiet and let our caller lead 
the conversation, hoping that the objecl: of his 

[252] 



THE PLUTOCRATS 

visit would finally unravel from the tangle of his 
small talk. Coonie sniffed around him a few 
times, and, with unerring instincl, retreated under 
the house. 

The atmosphere of hostility that enveloped his 
coming gradually dissipated during the forenoon, 
and he was invited to join us when Narcissus 
announced lunch. 

"Now what you fellows ought to do," he de- 
clared, "is to go up the river again and drag it 
more thoroughly. I think you'd find some more 
pearls there that would put you well on your feet 
financially. You could buy some land on the 
bluff and along the shore and have a larger place. 
This property will all be much more valuable 
some day. You could have an automobile, and 
keep more servants. If you had a bigger and 
better boat you could put a small crew on it 
and go anywhere in the world you wanted to." 

He outlined methods of using money that daz- 
zled imagination. Like Moses of old, Sipes and 
Saunders were shown a land of allurement, from 
what seemed to them a towering height. It could 
be theirs, if they had the price, and the price was 
in the lily-margined channel of the Winding River. 

[253] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

Like most of the rest of humanity, the onion- 
skinner craved "unearned increment," and he 
hoped to inveigle his hearers into procuring it 
for him. The echo of the coin's ring — a sound 
that encircles the world — was in the voice of 
the tempter, and the old mariners listened as to 
a siren's song. 

"I'll go with you, if you'd like to have me," he 
declared, "and I'll pay you a good price for your 
pearls, as I did before." 

"I'll tell ye wot we'll do," said Sipes. "We 
ain't busy now, an' we'll take the Crawfish up to 
our ol' camp. We'll take Cookie 'long an' keep 
things up. You c'n go out with the flatboat an' 
fish fer jools. We'll stick 'round an' watch you 
work, if we don't git too tired, and we'll give 
you a fifth o' wot you git. We'll sell our jools 
to somebody else, an' w'en you sell your share 
you c'n fix up with us fer our time. If you don't 
find nothin' you won't have to pay us much any- 
way, so it'll be a good thing fer you." 

While the proposition might have excited the 
onion-skinner's admiration, from a professional 
point of view, he failed to see its advantages to 
him. He suggested that it might be well to think 

[254] 



THE PLUTOCRATS 

matters over for a few days, and that he "might 
drop around again the latter part of the week." 

We helped him push his boat into the lake, and 
he rowed away, leaving a writhing serpent of dis- 
content at Shipmates' Rest. 

"They's a good deal in wot that feller says," 
declared Sipes. "I don't think nothin' o' him, but 
jest think wot we c'd do if we had two bar'ls o' 
cash-money instid o' one! We c'd branch out an' 
buy this whole cussed shore. We'd stick up signs 
and nobody'd dast come on it!" 

Saunders was virulent and profane in his com- 
ment on "fellers that ain't satisfied with wot they 
got, w'en they got all they need, er ever oughta 
have," but finally admitted that "they's a lot 
more things we might do if we c'd find some more 
o' them big pearls." 

That evening the old cronies departed into the 
moonlight for consultation. John and I sought 
our couches early. Narcissus took his new mouth 
organ and ukelele, and strolled off up the beach 
with Coonie. They had evidently returned some- 
time before midnight, for I heard loud impreca- 
tions being bestowed on the pup by Saunders, 
who had found him chewing up a deck of cards 

[255] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

on the floor, when he and Sipes had come in later. 
Doubtless Coonie had been ennuied and distrait, 
and had longed for occupation. With all his sins, 
he was a lovable little dog, and his good nature 
and affection made him irresistible. He was fully 
forgiven in the morning. 

"Bill an' me's talked this thing all over," an- 
nounced Sipes at the breakfast table. "This damn 
onion-skinner's got sump'n else in 'is head 'sides 
jools. He wouldn't want to go up there an' stick 
'round jest to watch us clam-fish'n'. We'll find 
out wot's bit'n' 'im. We'r' goin' to tell 'im to come 
on with us, an' we want you to go too. We'll go 
up there an' start the camp an' do some jool- 
fish'n', an' have a good time, an' mebbe we'll git 
some. That cuss bilked us on that deal last year, 
an' you bet we'r' goin' to git square somehow. 
We'r' goin' to give 'im the third degree, an' you 
Jest watch us fondle 'im. All such fellers as him 
oughta be exported." 

Bascom was received with faultless urbanity 
when he came again. It was agreed that he 
should be simply a guest, and that operations 
should be resumed on the old basis. Sipes as- 
sured him that he would be made comfortable. 

[256] 



THE PLUTOCRATS 

"You'll have a fine time up there in them 
woods. You c'n fish an' loaf 'round an' pick 
posy flowers, an' us fellers'll find out wot's left 
in the river. Cookie's goin' to fix up a lot o' 
stuff, an' we'll have a fine trip. You go an* 
fetch wot you want to take 'long, an' come early 
tomorrer." 

The necessary preparations were made. Mike 
wound the Crawfish into the lake. Bascom had 
brought some seedy old clothes, a soft gray hat, 
and some high boots. His baggage was light and 
he appeared quite well prepared for an outing. 
He had some interesting maps with him, which 
he said would enable us to keep posted as to 
exactly where we were. He brought a pocket 
compass, some light fishing tackle, a leather gun 
case, and I noticed, when his coat was off, that 
the handle of a small revolver protruded from 
his left hip pocket. 

John was to remain in charge of the place. 

"Now don't you take in no bad money, an* 
don't you pay out none o' no kind w'ile weV 
gone," cautioned Sipes, as we climbed into the 
boat. "You take care o' yerself, an' don't fall 
in the water." He bestowed a solemn wink on 

[257] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

the old man as the motor began to hum, and we 
departed, waving farewells to our faithful custo- 
dian. 

The voyage to the mouth of the river was un- 
eventful. We tied up at the old pier, and Sipes 
and Narcissus left us for an hour to do some 
errands in the village. A former experience of 
Narcissus in that town was disastrous, and the 
old man thought "somebody'd better be 'long to 
help Cookie carry things, fer 'e got overloaded 
ere once t. 

Saunders and I found my small boat and tent 
where they had been stored during the winter, 
and got them out to take with us. 

"That feller that Sipes is talk V to up there on 
the hill's the game warden," remarked Saunders. 
"Wot d'ye s'pose 'e wants with 'im?" 

We reembarked, made our way up through the 
marsh, and saw our old camping ground in the 
distance. 

Out in the middle of the river we beheld Cap- 
tain Peppers on the flatboat, which we had left on 
the bank the year before. He had been dragging 
the stream, but had stopped work when he heard 
our motor in the marsh. 

[258] 



THE PLUTOCRATS 

"Look at that oF pussyfoot up there fish'n fer 
jools!" exclaimed Sipes. "He looks like a bug 
float'n on a chip. You c'n see 'is oF beak from 
'ere! Listen at me josh 'im w'en we git up to 
'im. He gives me pains. I'd like to know wot 'e 
was ever cap'n of. It's prob'ly one o' them demi- 
john titles. They's slews of 'em. Fellers that 
drinks a lot gits to be called Colonel an' Major 
an' Cap'n, that ain't never c'mmanded nothin' er 
fit nothin' but demijohns all their lives, an' I bet 
'e's one of 'em. The redder their noses gits the 
higher up their titles goes, an' some of 'em gits 
to be gen'rals 'fore they'r laid away, an' they's 
some s'loon j edges over to the county seat that 
ain't never been in no court 'cept to be fined fer 
bein' drunk. Don't you start nothin' 'bout that 
oF motor, Bill, 'cause it won't do now." 

"Hello, Cap'n!" shouted the old man, as we 
came up. "Fine day, ain't it? Cetchin' any 
mudturkles?" 

The Captain, ill at ease, began poling the flat- 
boat toward the bank. 

"I didn't know you expected to use this outfit 
again, an' I thought I'd see if they was any loose 
pearls layin' 'round 'ere. Of course now you're 

[259] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

here you c'n go ahead. I don't want to interfere 
with you in no way." 

"You won't," replied Sipes. "We didn't know 
you was clam-fish'n w'en we fust seen you. We 
thought you'd mosied up 'ere so's to be near that 
spring, an' was jest out cruisin' on the river fer 
fun." 

The Captain's nose was a little redder than 
when we last saw him, but otherwise he appeared 
unchanged. He was invited to land and have 
lunch with us. Saunders introduced him to the 
onion-skinner, liquid cheer was produced, and an 
entente cordiale soon prevailed. 

The big sail was again rigged as a shelter tent 
in its old place, and my tent was put where it 
was before. The Captain kindly helped to get 
our camp in order. He showed us a few pearls 
of moderate value, that he had found during the 
two weeks he had been at work on the river, and 
they were purchased by Bascom, at what seemed 
to be a fair price. Late in the afternoon he partook 
of more liquid cheer, and rowed away down the 
river in his little boat. 

That night we assembled around the fire, but 
the circle was not as of old. Something was miss- 

[260] 



THE PLUTOCRATS 

ing and something had been added. The atmos- 
phere was unsympathetic. There is a certain 
psychology that pervades gatherings, both great 
and small, that is subtly sensitive to influences 
that are often indefinable. In this instance the 
"repellent aura" was obviously the onion-skinner. 
He exerted himself to be agreeable, but his bon- 
homie was about as infectious as that of a croco- 
dile trying to be playful. His personality did not 
harmonize with the little amenities of life, and 
he was a misfit anywhere but in a financial 
transaction. 

Sipes's habitual effervescence seemed to have 
a false note. Saunders and I kept rather quiet, 
and the melodies that dwelt in the volatile soul 
of Narcissus were hushed. 

The arboreal katydids were abroad in the 
woods. These insects are exquisitely beautiful in 
their green gowns. Like many human creatures, 
they would be fascinating if they kept still, but 
they stridulate boisterously and persistently. 
Their scientific name — Cyrtophyllus perspicil- 
latus — is only one of the things against them. 
The insects seldom move after they have estab- 
lished themselves in a tree for the night, and they 

[261] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

often stay in one spot from early August, when 
they usually mature, until the fall frosts silence 
their penetrating clamor. The green foliage pro- 
vides a camouflage that renders them practically 
undiscoverable, except by accident. We hunted 
for one particular offender with an electric flash- 
light and murderous intent nearly half of one 
night, without finding him. We hurled many 
sticks and clods of earth into the tree, but failed 
even to disturb his meter. 

It is the male katydid that proclaims the 
troubles of his kind to the forest world. He 
begins soon after dark, and continues his 
work until morning. Curiously, the female is 
silent. 

The loud dissonant sounds are produced by 
friction of the wings, which have hard, drumlike 
membranes and edges like curved files. He 
shuffles them with a continuity that is nerve- 
racking. Often I would suddenly start from 
sound sleep, with an indistinct apprehension of 
some impending peril. 

One morning, after a haunted and vexatious 
night in the little tent, I found that the following 
impressions had crept over white paper during 

[262] 



THE PLUTOCRATS 

the hours of darkness, and lay beside the burned- 
out candle. They are the lines of one who suffered 
and should be read with reverence. 

A DIABOLIC CADENCE 

Into the choirs of the trees there has come a rasp- 
ing, strident, and unholy sound. A fiend in green 
is mocking the transient year with mad threnody 
from his eyrie among the boughs. 

In that suspended half consciousness that hovers 
along the margin of a dream, there seems to echo, 
out of some vast and awful chasm, a rumbling roar 
of rocks — from some abysmal smithy of the gods 
within the hidden caverns of the earth where huge 
boulders are being fashioned by giant hands, to be 
hurled up into space, to descend with frightful crash, 
and extinguish the life upon the globe. 

In the agonized recoil of frenzied fancy from the 
borders of the dream, the demonic ceaseless sawing, 
of the arboreal fiend in green, arrests the fleeting 
phantoms of the brain, and, like a doleful tuneless 
tolling of a fraclured funeral bell — like a barbaric 
song of sorrow over fallen warriors — the ripping, 
rasping, resonant notes mingle with the night wind, 
and drown the harmonious hum of drowsy insecls, 
that kindly nature has sent into the world to lull 
somnolent fancy into paths of dreams. 

After the gentle prelude of the crickets — and the 
lullabies of forest folk — like a mad discordant 
piper, he starts a strain of dismal dole, and files 
away the seconds from the onward hours. Merci- 
lessly across the tender human nerves, that seem 

[263] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

to span the taut bridge of a swaying violin, he 
sweeps a berosined and excruciating bow. 

Prolonged wailing for a '''lost or stolen" love 
may have disintegrated his vocal chords. His ago- 
nized and shattered heart may have sunk into hope- 
less depths, and all his articulate forces may have 
been transmitted to his foliated wings, when his 
belov'ed was lured away by some unknown marauder 

— mayhap of darker green or lovely pink. 

The errant pair may be hidden in a distant glade 

— or dingly dell — gazing upward through the 
leaves, wondering "what star should be their home 
when love becomes immortal," and listening to him, 
as he scrapes the melodies out of the night with that 
infernal, insistent, and slang-infecled song: 

" She's beat it — she's beat it — she's beat it — 
Come back — come back — come back — 
Tou skate — you skate — 
You've swiped — you've swiped 
My mate — my mate — my mate!" 

Intermittently he seems to muffle the ragged 
rhyme, and merge into virulent vers libre — imagis- 
tic muse and amputated prose — containing sound 
projecliles, of low trajectory, that winnow the aisles 
of the forest for an erring spouse who has fled beyond 
the range of common rhyme. 

Perhaps it's all wrong — about this insecl having 
loved — for love is a holy thing, and it may be that 
it abides not among the things that have wings and 
stings. It would seem that he who could trill this 
nerve-destroying song could know no love, or that 
it was ever in the world. 

[264] 



THE PLUTOCRATS 

It may be that this emerald villain has been out- 
lawed by his kind, and he's filing, up there in the 
dark, on some terrible iron thing, that he's sharpen- 
ing to annihilate the tribe that banned him. He may 
be sawing off a branch, and, if so, I hope he's strad- 
dling the part that'll fall off when he's through. 
Maybe he's got some ex-friend up there, pinioned to 
the bark, and he's boring him to death, by telling him 
the same thing — the same thing — the same thing 
— o'er and o'er and o'er. 

I wish that some gliding fluffy owl, or other 
rover of the darkened woods, would only pause a 
moment, and divest the bough of this green-mantled 
wretch, and then that some mighty ravenous bird 
would colled the people we know, who come and 
scrape on something that's inside of them — lay a 
sound barrage before us — fret the air with piffle, 
and with sorrows all their own — and chant a woe- 
ful ceaseless cadence, like the green arboreal fiend, 
whose sonorous and satanic notes assail us from 
the bough. Miscreated, "malignant, and hellish 
though they and the fiend may be, they all revel in 
that rare joy that comes only to him who has found 
his life work. 

For our sins must we be scourged, else, why are 
these people? 

And, 

Pourquoi — pourquoi — pourquoi — 
Is this 

Katydid — Katydid — Katydid ? 

After listening patiently to the reading of the 
production, my unfeeling prosaic friend Sipes re- 

O65] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

marked, "Gosh, we gotta git that insect 'fore it 
gits dark ag'in!" 

The Ancient called the third day after our 
arrival, and spent the afternoon with us. Bas- 
com seemed much interested in helping to enter- 
tain him, and got out his maps. On one of them 
was indicated the names of the owners of the 
different tracts of land, and we were surprised 
to learn that the old man was the possessor of 
the woods we were in, practically all of the land 
around the marsh, and a long strip of frontage 
on the lake. Captain Peppers was also a large 
owner of property along the lake. 

The veiled motive of Bascom's trip with us was 
now apparent. He wanted options for a year 
on a large part of these holdings, and was willing 
to pay what he considered a good price. It 
seemed that on the day we came, he had had 
some talk with the Captain on the subject, and 
they were to take the matter up again. 

He wanted options only on the tracts with 
marsh and lake frontage, and argued that if they 
were improved the rest of the land would be made 
much more valuable. He had skilfully arranged 
his stage setting for the object of his trip, and 

[266] 



THE PLUTOCRATS 

claimed that the idea had just occurred to him 
while he was taking this little outing. He said 
that he accidentally happened to have the maps, 
and had brought them along to familiarize him- 
self with the country he was in. 

He made the Ancient a substantial offer for 
an option on most of his holdings, at a price that 
the old man did not seem inclined to consider, 
but he was open to negotiation. 

"I been livin' 'ere most all my life, an' I've 
ranged 'round this oP marsh an' them sand-hills 
so much that I wouldn't know how to acT: if they 
wasn't mine, but if you'll git yer figgers up whar 
I c'n see 'em, mebbe we'll talk about it some 
more." 

"You see," said Bascom to Saunders, after the 
old settler had left, "this land idea is a sort of a 
side issue with me. I think that perhaps a little 
money might be made here, but I would have to 
take some big chances. You and Sipes talk with 
those fellows a little, and see if you can't bring 
them around to business, and I'll pay you some- 
thing for it if they sign up. You might have 
some influence with them. Tell them that I 
mentioned to you that it was just a gamble with 

[267] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

me, and probably there isn't a chance in a hun- 
dred that I will exercise the options at all, and 
they will be ahead whatever they get out of me 
now." 

The old shipmates agreed to do what they could 
and the subject was dropped for the time being. 

The accidental exposure of the contents of a 
long fat wallet that Bascom carried inside his 
vest revealed the fact that he had a large amount 
-of money with him, much larger than could pos- 
sibly be required for ordinary use. Evidently 
he was prepared to close the business with the 
owners of the land the moment their minds met. 

"Holy Mike! Did ye see that wad?" whis- 
pered Sipes, who was awed by the magic of the 
gold certificates. "I'd like to know some way 
to git that wad," he remarked later. "I'd play 
some seven-up with 'im fer some of it, but they's 
sump'n 'bout 'im that makes me think it wouldn't 
do." 

I realized that the despoiler was at the gates of 
the Dune Country. The foot of the Philistine 
was on holy ground. This man with a withered 
soul was an invader of sanctuary. He would 
tear the dream temples down that the centuries 

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THE PLUTOCRATS 

had builded. With steam shovels and freight 
cars he would level the undulating hills, and haul 
away their shining sands to a world of greed, 
where man does not discriminate. The wild life 
would flee from steam whistles that shrieked 
through the forests, and from smoke that defiled 
the quiet places. Belching chimneys and un- 
sightly signs would befoul and deface the fair 
domain. With the beauty of the dunes he would 
feed a Moloch in the sordid town. 

The peaceful marsh, and the river with its 
channel of silver light, would be invaded with 
dredges. Abbatoirs, tanneries, factories, and blast 
furnaces might come. The Winding River, with 
its halo of memories, would flow away with re- 
ceding years, and a foul stream would carry the 
stain of desecration and filth out to pollute the 
crystal depths of the lake. 

"Improvements" were contemplated in Dune- 
land, and the spectre of hopeless ugliness hovered 
along its borders. The altar of Mammon awaited 
a sacrifice, for "money might be made here" if 
certain manufacturing interests, to which Bascom 
vaguely alluded, "could be induced to utilize 
these now practically worthless wastes of sand." 

[269] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

In years to come the wild geese may look down 
from their paths through the soiled skies, to the 
earth carpet below them, and wonder at the 
creatures that have changed it from a fabric of 
beauty to a source of evil odors and terrifying 
sounds. 

The clam-fishing was unsatisfactory. The mol- 
lusks seemed to be about exhausted. Sipes and 
Saunders worked faithfully for several days, but 
only found a dozen or so, and none of them con- 
tained pearls. 

"We gotta wait fer a new crop," declared Saun- 
ders, who was disgusted with the whole trip and 
wanted to go home. 

Bascom persuaded the old sailors to remain a 
few days, to give the Ancient a chance to come 
back, and to impress the Captain at the village 
with the idea that he was in no hurry to see him. 
They had no love for that red-nosed worthy and 
acquiesced. 

The flatboat was restored to its berth on the 
bank, and in the early morning Sipes and Saun- 
ders made a trip to the village in the Crawfish. 
On their return at lunch time they reported that 
they had seen nothing of the Captain. 

[270] 




(From the Authi r'sEtchh ■< 



THE PLUTOCRATS 

I spent the afternoon up the river and heard 
a great many shots echoing through the woods. 
When I returned to camp I found that Bascom 
had been out shooting robins. There were thirty- 
seven of the innocent little redbreasts in his 
bloody bag, and the game warden was with him 
when he returned from his shameful expedition. 

It seemed that Sipes, when he arrived from 
the village, had pictured to Bascom the glories 
of a certain robin pie, "with little dumplins," 
that he said Narcissus had once compounded, 
and the fascinated onion-skinner, although know- 
ing that it was illegal to kill songsters, had taken 
the risk of going out with his gun to obtain 
material for another one. He was mad all the 
way through, but was a much subdued man. 

"Them robins is song birds, an' it's ag'in the 
law to kill 'em at any time," said the warden. 
"They're wuth ten dollars apiece an' costs to 
the state, an' you've got to go to the county seat 
with me. Mebbe you'll be jugged too, fer they're 
pretty severe with fellers that shoot little birds." 

Bascom offered to fix up the matter privately, 
on a liberal financial basis, but the minion of the 
law was inexorable. The culprit must have re- 

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SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

garded that part of the country as most peculiar 
and inhospitable. 

Erskine Douglas Potts, the game warden, was a 
lengthy loose-jointed individual. One eye drooped 
in a peculiar way, and seemed to rove independ- 
ently of the other. Sipes declared that "Doug' 
c'n look up in a tree with one eye, an' down a 
hole with the other lamp at the same time." Odd 
humor radiated from him and he had a deep sense 
of his dignity as an upholder of the "revised stat- 
toots." Two printed copies of the state game 
laws protruded from the top of his trousers, where 
they were secured by a safety pin. "Casey," his 
small yellow dog, was his inseparable companion. 
They were a devoted pair of chums and Potts 
refused to allow a "pitcher" to be made of him 
unless the dog was included. 

Casey was an animal of rare acumen. He had 
once taken the prize at a village dog-show, where 
intelligence and not breeding was considered, and 
his laurels were regarded as imperishable by his 
proud master. 

"They didn't put me up, but if they had I'd 'a' 
lost out 'side o' him," he remarked. "The dogs 
is the smartest things in that town, an' they 

[272] 



THE PLUTOCRATS 

couldn't be no kind of a brain show thar with- 
out 'em. This dog's a wonder. He knows the 
time o' day, an' all the short cuts through the 
woods an' sand-hills. We ain't neither of us got 
no pedigrees, but we seem to navigate 'round 
pretty well without 'em. 

a W'en we hear any shoot'n off in the woods we 
go out on a still-hunt. Casey finds the foot trails 
an' follers 'em up. 'Tain't long 'fore we spot the 
feller with the gun. Then we foregather with 'im 
an' ask fer 'is shoot'n license, an' inspect wot 'e's 
got. If it's song birds, er game out o' season, we 
form in line an' perceed to whar the scales o' jus- 
tice hang, an' the feller has to loosen up. 

"Casey hikes down to the depot w'en they's 
anybody thar with baggage er packages, an' sniffs 
'em over. If 'e scents any birds 'e alw'ys lets me 
know. I git half o' the fines that's levied, an' this 
'ere bag we've jest brought in looks like pretty 
good pickin'. It's durn poor shoot'n that don't 
shake down sump'n fer somebody. Casey an' me 
lives alone, an' we have lots o' long talks together. 
He knows more'n most lawyers. He's my depity, 
an' I couldn't git along without 'im. A feller that 
owns a nice new breech loadin' gun offered to trade 

[273] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

me a horse fer 'im last week, but they was nothin' 
doin\ 

"Me an' Casey don't miss much that goes on 
'round 'ere. After them robins is took off o' the bar 
o' justice, we'll fetch 'em back, if the jedge don't 
cop 'em, an' we'll let yer dark-spot cook 'em, an' 
we'll have a pie that's all our own. Yer moneyed 
friend c'n think about it while 'e's in the county 
jail countin' the change 'e's got left." 

It was arranged that the prisoner and his 
marble-hearted captor should be taken to the 
village that night in the Crawfish, and the jour- 
ney to the county seat made the next day. 

The evening meal was far from festive. The 
boat was poled out into the current and started 
away down stream in the moonlight, with Saun- 
ders at the helm. Sipes and the warden smoked 
complacently on the roof of the cabin, and the 
moody Bascom sat between them. Casey was in 
charge of the evidence near the bow, where he 
jealously guarded the bag of robins and kept 
his eye on the evil doer. 

Sipes had remarked to me before they left that 
"things has been pretty dull 'round this 'ere 
camp, but now they's sump'n doin'." 

[274] 



THE PLUTOCRATS 

"Ah tole Mr. Bascom that 'e bettah not go 
shoot'n' much 'round heah," said Narcissus, with 
a quiet chuckle, after the party had left, "but 'e 
said 'e wanted one o' them robin pies that Mr. 
Sipes tole 'im 'bout. Ah don't remembah 'bout 
no robin pie, but it might be awful good. The 
wa'den has 'fiscated all them robins, an' Ah guess 
we got to fix up sump'n else fo' dinnah tomorrow." 

I asked no questions when the old shipmates 
returned, and they volunteered no information 
as to any part that they might or might not have 
played in the little drama of the afternoon, but 
I suspected that the "third degree" that Sipes 
had mentioned before we started was now in 
process of application. 

Justice was dealt out to Bascom with unspar- 
ing hand when he reached the county seat, and 
he was compelled to pay the full penalty of his 
wrongdoing. After liquidating his fines, and in- 
cidentally himself, in a moderate way, to drown 
his troubles, he had spent an hour or so about 
town, and was just taking the train, when he was 
again arrested for carrying a concealed weapon. 
He had neglected to leave his revolver at the 
camp, and was assessed accordingly. 

[275] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

He came back to us after three days, with a 
crestfallen air, and said that he was ready to 
break camp if we were. Nothing had been seen 
of the Ancient or the Captain, and he regarded 
it as poor strategy to stay longer, with no par- 
ticular excuse for doing so. He would devise 
some other way of getting at the coy landowners. 

We packed up our things and departed. The 
engine stopped just before we reached the village, 
and we found that our gasoline was exhausted. 
Unfortunately the oars had been forgotten when 
we left Shipmates' Rest, but as the new motor 
had worked perfectly, there had been no occasion 
for them. We poled the Crawfish to the old pier, 
landed, and stowed my little boat and tent where 
we had found them. We then took the gasoline 
can and walked up to the village, leaving Bascom 
in charge of the Crawfish. 

He was anxious for us to run across the Captain 
accidentally, and if possible get him down to the 
boat on some pretence. In effecT:, we were to 
shoo the wary Captain to the ambush, where 
the onion-skinner lay in wait with his tempting 
yellowbacks. We did not look very hard for 
him, but I happened to see him down the road 

[276] 



THE PLUTOCRATS 

talking to a man in a buggy. I was not inclined 
to do any shooing, and did not disturb him. 

We spent some time in the village store. When 
we came out, the sky, which had looked threat- 
ening all the morning, was overcast with dark 
angry clouds. A big storm was brewing, and we 
decided not to start for Shipmates' Rest until 
it was over. There was a high off-shore wind. 
The waves were rising rapidly out on the lake, but 
the protected water along the bluffs was still 
comparatively calm. As the wind increased we 
went down to the pier, intending to tie the boat 
up in a more sheltered place, and remain at the 
village all night. We found to our dismay that 
the Crawfish was adrift far out on the water. 
Under the strain of the wind and the river cur- 
rent, the line had parted that had held it to the 
pier. 

Bascom was gesticulating wildly for help, but 
there was no means of getting to him. There 
happened to be no boats around the mouth of 
the river large enough to be of use in the waves 
that were now breaking over the Crawfish. There 
was no gasoline on the boat, and if there had 
been oars Bascom could not have got the boat 

[277] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

back with them after he got into the current. 
Evidently he had not realized his danger until 
it was too late to jump overboard and swim 
ashore, or it may not have occurred to him. 

"That poor feller ain't got no more chance 
'an a fish worm on a red-hot stove," shouted 
Sipes above the roar of the wind, as we watched 
the helpless craft being tossed and borne away. 
To do the old man justice, he forgot the boat, 
and our belongings on it, in the face of Bascom's 
peril, as we all did. 

There was a faint hope that some steamer on 
the lake might rescue him, but there was none 
in sight, and we doubted if the boat would stay 
afloat more than a few minutes more in such a 
wind and sea. Rain began to come in torrents, 
and the distant objecl:, that we had watched so 
anxiously, was obliterated by the storm. 

We made our way back to the village store 
with difficulty, and telephoned to the lifesaving 
station about thirty miles away on the coast, 
but there was no possible hope of help from 
there. There was much excitement among a few 
villagers who came out into the storm, but nobody 
could suggest any means of relief. 

[278] 



THE PLUTOCRATS 

We spent a gloomy and sleepless night in the 
little town, where we were hospitably provided 
for. 

Somewhere far out on the wind-lashed lake the 
turbulent seas and the storm played with a thing 
that had become a part of the waste and debris 
of the wide waters. Bascom's god was in his 
leather wallet, but it was powerless, except with 
men. The winds and the waves knew it not. 
Greed, that dominates the greater part of man- 
kind, becomes ghastly illusion, as the frail crea- 
ture it disfigures blends into the elements when 
finality comes. 

Mother Nature, with her invincible forces, 
sometimes chastens her erring children who do 
not understand. She had guarded her treasures 
in Duneland through the countless years, and 
now, with a breath from the skies, a destroyer 
had been wafted from its portals. 

Poor Bascom had indeed received the "third 
degree" and had been "exported" in a way that 
was not contemplated by the sorrowful old 
sailors. 

The storm subsided the next day and we made 
the journey along the beach on foot to Ship- 

[279] 



SKETCHES IN DUNELAND 

mates' Rest, where we found everything in good 
order. We related our doleful experience to 
John, and there was a cloud over our little party 
for several days. Like most of the troubles in 
this world, particularly when they are those of 
others, the sadness of Bascom's fate soon lost its 
poignancy. 

"I'm sorry fer Bascom," remarked Sipes, "an* 
I hate to lose the boat an' all the stuff wot's on it, 
but Gosh, I wish I had that wad! He made a 
lot o' money in 'is business, an' money's all 'e 
ever wanted to git, an' 'e's got plenty of it right 
with 'im, so he ain't got no kick comin'. He was 
a hard citizen. All they was that was good about 
'im was 'is cash-money, an' it's like that with a 
lot o' people. I don't s'pose 'e'll ever git any- 
wheres near the New Jerus'lum that Zeke tells 
about, but if 'e does, I bet 'e'll want to skin some 
o' them pearls wot's on the gate." 

I arranged to leave for home, and promised to 
write to Sipes if I ever saw anything in the news- 
papers relating to the finding of Bascom's body. 

"By the way, Sipes, I never knew your first 
name. What is it?" 

"My fust name? It's Willie, but don't you 
[280] 



THE PLUTOCRATS 

never put that on no letter. Me an' you an' 
Bill's the only ones wot knows it." 

I departed out of Duneland, and one cold 
afternoon during the winter I opened the door 
of my city studio, after a short absence, and 
under it was a card that had been left during the 
past hour. On it was engraved, 

HORATIUS T. BASCOM 

REAL ESTATE 

FARM LANDS AND MANUFACTURING 

SITES A SPECIALTY 

I mailed it to "Mr. W. Sipes" with a trite allu- 
sion to bad pennies, and such other comment as 
seemed befitting. 



[281] 



